SERMONS 



BY THE LATE 



WILLIAM B. 0. PEABODY, D. D. 

WITH 



A MEMOIR, BY HIS BROTHER. 



SECOND EDITION. 



BOSTON: 
BENJAMIN H. GREENE, 
124 Washington Street. 
1849. 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1848, by 
B. H. Greene, 
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 



CAMBRIDGE: 
METCALF AND COMPANY, 

PRINTERS TO THE UNIVERSITY. 



2t9 



31 

NOTE. 

The Memoir of Dr. Peabody down to the last year of his life 
was prepared by his brother, where it was abruptly broken off by 
the writer's death. A friend, intimately acquainted with both, has 
completed the unfinished memoir, and collected the notices of the 
brother which are subjoined. 

The Sermons were selected and printed under the supervision 
of another of Dr. Peabody's friends. They were in type before 
the recent political convulsions in Europe began, which must be 
remembered in reading Sermon XIX. 

Another volume of selections from the writings of Dr. Peabody 
will probabiy be given to the public. 

Cambridge, December, 1848. 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

MEMOIR 1 

NOTICES OF THE REV. OLIVER W. B. PEAEODY . . .111 



SERMON L 

EARNEST DEVOTION . 135 

SERMON II. 

THE SISTERS OF CHARITY 144 

SERMON III. 

READY TO BE OFFERED 155 

SERMON IV. 

GROUNDS AND LIMITATIONS OF HUMAN RESPONSIBILITY . 168 

SERMON V. 

CHRISTIAN FORBEARANCE ....... 182 

SERMON VI. 
VISION OF god's throne 190 

SERMON VII. 

THE PEACE OF THE SOUL ....... 202 

SERMON VIII. 

CHRISTIAN SINCERITY NOT LIKELY TO GIVE OFFENCE . . 215 

SERMON IX. 

THE TRINITY 225 



ri CONTENTS. 

SERMON X. 

IMMORTALITY OF THE AFFECTIONS . . . . . 236 

SER.VON XI. 

THE HOUSE OF GOD ........ 248 

SERMON XII. 

THE DISORDERED MIND • 259 

SERMON XIII. 



PREPARATION FOR HEAVEN 269 

SERMON XIV. 



RELIGION AND PHILOSOPHY 278 

SERMON XV. 

THE SECRET OF HAPPINESS . . . . . . . 289 

SERMON XVI. 
OFFENCES OF THE TONGUE 300 

SERMON XVII. 

DIVINE COMMUNICATIONS 310 

SERMON XVIII. 

THE APOSTLES 323 

SERMON XIX. 

THE ETHICS OF WAR 333 

SERMON XX. 

WE KNOW IN PART . . • • • • • 356 

SERMON XXI. 

ON READING WORKS OF FICTION 367 



ADDRESS DELIVERED AT THE CONSECRATION OF THE SPRING- 
FIELD CEMETERY 379 



MEMOIR. 



MEMOIR. 



It seems proper that some account of this faithful 
minister of Christ should accompany a selection from his 
writings. Perhaps it may be thought that the task of 
preparing such an account should have been confided to 
a less partial hand ; but to obviate this objection as far 
as may be, I propose to draw the larger portion of it 
from my brother's correspondence with his familiar 
friends, and from some of his discourses which contain 
materials suited to the purpose. The tenor of his life 
was very even and noiseless ; little diversified by strik- 
ing incident, which gives to personal history its usual 
charm. But there was an evident progress in his intel- 
lectual and religious character, to the very last. The 
traits of that character were also of more than common 
attractiveness and excellence, and in his later days they 
were tested by severe, if not peculiar, sorrows. Per- 
haps the knowledge of his example may inspire others 
with the wish to make such progress, and with the power 
to endure with fortitude afflictions similar to his. 

William Bourn Oliver Peabody was born in Ex- 
eter, in the State of New Hampshire, on the 9th day of 
1 



MEMOIR. 



July, 1799. His father, a man of many amiable quali- 
ties, had long resided there, enjoying much of the esteem 
and confidence of his fellow-citizens, and happy in the 
affections of a large family-circle. He was fortunate, 
also, in the instructions and example of an affectionate 
and religious mother. Both of his parents lived long 
enough to see their care of him in infancy rewarded by 
the usefulness of his maturer years ; his mother, who at 
an advanced age became an inmate of his family, went 
not long before him to the grave. His father found en- 
joyment in exercising a liberal hospitality, which brought 
the elder portion of his family much into connection with 
society, and the society of his native place was unusu- 
ally intelligent, cordial, and refined. Nor was the benefi- 
cent influence of such a circle lost on him, as it is very 
generally on the young ; he was attracted towards it by 
his native delicacy of taste and feeling, and by the inter- 
est which he early manifested in subjects of reading and 
inquiry, to which much of the attention of that society 
was given. Those who knew him at this period remem- 
ber him as a gentle and retiring boy, engaging with ar- 
dor in the active sports of childhood, but very seldom, if 
ever, in the strife by which they are apt to be attended ; 
pursuing his studies with attention and fidelity, and per- 
forming all his tasks in a manner creditable to himself 
and satisfactory to his instructors, never, in any instance 
that his friends can now recall, incurring punishment or 
grave censure for any serious misconduct or deficiency. 
Few incidents of his boyhood are preserved ; and such 
incidents are rarely worth remembering as affording 
indications of the future character. But it may be 
truly said of him, that the same traits of gentleness, 



MEMOIR. 



3 



discretion, humility, and conscientiousness that marked 
the man were early manifested by the child. 

In the year 1808, at the age of nine, he was placed 
by his father at the academy in Atkinson, New Hamp- 
shire. He was there an inmate of the family of his rel- 
ative, the Rev. Stephen Peabody, an excellent and ven- 
erable man, whose character and peculiarities have been 
described by one who knew him well, in a late number 
of the Christian Examiner. Mrs. Peabody was the 
sister of Mrs. Adams, wife of the first President Adams, 
whom she strongly resembled in character. Her hus- 
band was what is sometimes called a clergyman of the 
old school, of dignified appearance and manners, but 
invariably kind, and even playful. His sermons were 
composed amidst the boisterous mirth of a troop of 
boys at his fireside, and possibly a critical auditor might 
have discerned some evidences of the circumstances un- 
der which they were prepared ; but while he endeared 
himself to the young by his unfailing good-humor and 
kindly sympathy, he gave them an example of unpre- 
tending goodness which was not without a lasting influ- 
ence upon their characters. "William remained under 
the charge of Mr. Peabody and his excellent wife for a 
few months only. In the autumn of the same year, 
he was admitted as a student at the well-known academy 
at Exeter, then, as for many years after, under the care 
of Dr. Benjamin Abbot, who still enjoys, in a holy and 
serene old age, the love and gratitude of all his pupils 
w^ho have not gone before him to the grave. 

Dr. Abbot was the friend and neighbour of William's 
father, and he felt at all times a deep and friendly inter- 
est in the son. He possessed in an eminent degree the 



4 



MEMOIR. 



power of winning the affections of the young without 
ever forfeiting their respect ; never mistaking austerity 
for dignity, nor suffering the habit of authority to betray 
him into anger or coarseness. The other instructors 
were, in general, young men who devoted a year or two 
to the business of teaching before entering upon their 
profession. Of those who were thus employed while 
William was a member of the institution, some are yet 
living who have reached distinguished eminence. Among 
the dead may be named Henry Ware the younger, 
whose talent and religious excellence were then as ob- 
vious to his friends as they have since become to all. 
Under the tuition of such men, the academy well de- 
served the reputation which it has for many years main- 
tained and continues still to bear ; and that he won their 
regard may well be mentioned to my brother's praise. 
Without being deeply interested in some of the severer 
studies, he was at all times diligent and faithful. He 
betrayed an early inclination for poetry, and wrote many 
pieces which exhibited a facility of versification quite 
remarkable in one so young. Among his efforts was a 
translation of one of Virgil's Eclogues, far superior in 
fidelity and grace to what is commonly expected at the 
age of ten. What is of far more importance, his moral 
conduct was always regulated by pure and lofty princi- 
ple. No instance is remembered in which he incurred 
the slightest censure ; his teachers regarded him as one 
of those — not constituting, by any means, the greater 
proportion of the young — who understand the purpose 
of education, and know how to estimate its value. He 
was, however, modest, distrustful of his own powers, and, 
though studious and attentive, slow to believe that he 



MEMOIR. 



5 



was able to excel. This was one of his marked traits 
through life : he always underrated his own powers, 
never imagining that he could make any strong impres- 
sion by the force of talent, or that he could accomplish 
any thing except by earnest industry. 

In the autumn of 1813, he was admitted into Harvard 
University as a member of the Sophomore class. The 
same general remarks which have been made in regard 
to his earlier conduct and proficiency are no less appli- 
cable to them in his new position. He did not aim to 
attain the highest excellence in the usual course of col- 
lege studies ; — his diffidence would not have permitted 
him to consider it within his reach ; — but his rank as a 
scholar was always respectable, and in the correctness of 
his moral conduct he was excelled by none. There 
was always an atmosphere of purity about him which 
the contagious influence of evil could not penetrate. 
Nor was he by any means inactive or self-indulgent. 
He availed himself of the opportunities for general read- 
ing which the college library afforded with equal ardor 
and discrimination, and he thus acquired a mass of in- 
formation which surprised those who knew him best, and 
was turned to good account in after life. His memory, 
exact and tenacious, made all that he read his own. In 
the later portion of life, when such reading grew dis- 
tasteful to him, he drew upon the stores of information 
which he had thus acquired, exhibiting a fulness and ac- 
curacy of knowledge which are not commonly retained 
after an interval of nearly thirty years. His example, 
as respects this miscellaneous reading, is not to be im- 
plicitly recommended. It required a stern intellectual 
discipline afterwards to change the somewhat discursive 
1* 



6 



MEMOIR. 



habits of mind which he had thus insensibly acquired, — 
an effort rarely made by those in whose minds, as in his, 
imagination is more powerful than reason. His man- 
ners were reserved, as his disposition was retiring, so 
that there were not many of his fellow-students with 
whom he was on terms of intimacy ; but he enjoyed the 
warm regard of a few, and the esteem of all. It was 
impossible for him to offend by vanity or undue preten- 
sion ; his estimate of himself was always far lower than 
his friends, or even those who knew him slightly, would 
have made. There were no incidents in his college life 
particularly worthy of remembrance ; but it was evi- 
dently with him a season of improvement, the fruits of 
which were manifested in his after life. The part as- 
signed him at the annual Commencement, in the year 
1816, when he received his first degree, was an English 
poem ; in which he evinced a degree of taste and talent 
quite equal to the expectations of his friends. 

Nothing has been thus far said in particular reference 
to his religious character, because, on such a subject, the 
language of vague eulogy is of small account. From a 
very early period, it was the expectation of his friends 
that his life was to be devoted to the Christian ministry, 
because they felt that his own feeling would incline in 
that direction, and because he was regarded as singu- 
larly fitted for that office by those who knew him best. 
At this early period, there was a purity and daily beauty 
in his life, and a freedom from the faults that easily 
beset that age, which gave decisive evidence of the 
religious principle within. But the age at which he 
left the University appeared too early for the profitable 
commencement of his professional studies, and in con- 



MEMOIR. 



7 



formity with the advice of his friend, Dr. Abbot, he be- 
came an assistant instructor in the academy at Exeter. 
There he enjoyed the paternal kindness of that man of the 
beatitudes, and the society of his family and early friends ; 
such society as no one could regard with indifference, 
and which left upon him an impression which time could 
not extinguish in his heart. His native place was al- 
ways dear to him ; he loved to revisit it. He saw it 
for the last time late in life, when he was himself heavily 
laden with affliction, and his relations, and many of his 
earlier friends, owing to the changes of life and the 
change of death, were no longer there. He thus alludes 
to the visit in his diary : — " What a change ! To go 
back, no longer young either in years or in heart, — to 
see a generation almost entirely new risen up in the place 
of their fathers, and only a few ruins just ready to fall 
remaining to remind us of the past ! " 

Mr. Peabody remained in this position for a year, 
fulfilling its duties acceptably to others and with profit to 
himself. His gentle firmness gave him a strong influ- 
ence over the minds and hearts of his pupils, and he 
found the occupation eminently beneficial in giving him 
habits of accuracy in acquiring and imparting knowl- 
edge. At the expiration of this term he went to Cam- 
bridge, to pursue his theological studies under Dr. 
Ware, the Hollis Professor of Divinity ; and, after pass- 
ing through the usual course for three years, he began 
his labors as a preacher in the year 1819, when he 
had just reached the age of twenty. What impres- 
sion was made by his character at this period, as well 
as by his earliest efforts in the pulpit, may be seen by 
an extract from a letter written by Hon. Daniel A. 



8 



MEMOIR. 



White of Salem, who then became acquainted with 
him for the first time, and was ever afterwards his 
friend. That gentleman had relatives in Springfield, 
who were connected with a religious society which had 
been recently formed in that place, under circumstances 
of which an account will presently be given. They 
were at this time about to select some person as their 
minister, and Mr. Peabody had already been engaged to 
preach to them. We give the letter as an evidence of 
the opinion formed of him by one whose discernment 
none will question, and whose judgment will be felt by 
all to be entitled to respect. It is addressed to a friend 
in Springfield. 

January, 1820. — "Mr. Peabody, the young preach- 
er, is in Exeter, and I understand that he and his friends 
anticipate with * pleasure his visit to Springfield. He 

has made us a visit, of which has informed you. 

We were greatly pleased with him. He appears to be 
just the right sort of man for you, and for any good, 
candid, enlightened people, who know how to appreciate 
and cherish modest worth. He has very respectable 
talents and attainments for his age, and these will con- 
tinually be growing and ripening with advancing years. 
His purity of mind and character, and his sincere piety, 
united with the most benevolent social affections, and del- 
icate feelings, will render him dear to those who have a 
refined taste, as well as sound principles in morality and 
religion. You may think me too slightly acquainted with 
Mr. Peabody to speak of him so positively, and I con- 
fess that my opportunity for acquaintance with him is far 
less than I could wish. But he makes, at once, a strong 
impression in his favor, — an impression that every thing 



MEMOIR. 



9 



essential in his character is as it should be. — and he 
inspires confidence that he will never disappoint any 
reasonable expectations. He is too young to take the 
burdens of a parochial charge, unless those burdens be 
lightened by the kindness of the people. I cannot but 
hope that he will suit you, and after some time become 
your minister, and if so, I feel sure that you will find 
in him a sincere and affectionate friend." 

An equally favorable impression appears to have been 
made upon the members of the society in Springfield. 
They very soon came to the unanimous determination to 
invite him to become their minister. The invitation vras 
accepted, and he was ordained on the 12th day of Octo- 
ber, 1820 ; thus beginning a relation which continued 
for the space of nearly twenty-seven years, with entire 
harmony, until it was broken by his death. All the 
essential facts relative to the situation of the society at 
this time, and to his own position, are distinctly stated in 
a Familiar Address, which he delivered at a social meet- 
ing of his parishioners, on the 16th of March, 1843. 
The following passage is an extract : — 

" It was on this season of the year 1820, that I first 
came to Springfield ; it was in those days when it requir- 
ed two days' travelling to reach this town from Boston. 
Winter though it was, I well remember the delight with 
which I first looked upon this queen of valleys from the 
brow of the neighbouring hill ; even then, in its snowy 
vesture, it seemed to me the most beautiful that I ever 
saw. Many circumstances combined to produce in me 
some desolate feelings. I was very young, wanting 
some months of the age of twenty-one ; I was without 
experience in my own profession, having preached but a 



10 



MEMOIR. 



few Sabbaths : I was wholly unacquainted with the in- 
habitants of the village, not having seen more than one 
or two of them before. I knew, also, that this was a 
frontier station, which would require a degree of judg- 
ment and power which I was far from possessing. But 
I was met with a friendly welcome, which at once re- 
moved those feelings, and I soon found that it was the 
place for me where to live, and possibly to die. Here I 
have lived for many years, and here I hope to die. It 
makes me sad to think how many of those warra hands 
which were then extended to me are now in the dust of 
the grave. 

w The church, to which I was invited had been formed 
in the preceding year. Some members of the First 
Church had become dissatisfied, for the alleged reason, 
that the course of exchanges was less liberal than in for- 
mer years. This, with kindred reasons of discontent, 
had produced an alienation which it seemed impossible to 
heal. It was therefore thought advisable, by the dissat- 
isfied party, to form a society of their own. This was 
accordingly done. A generous benefactor,* whose name 
rises up at once to the minds of all before me, presented 
them with a church, and thus insured success to the 
movement ; his example was worthily followed by his as- 
sociates in providing for the support of worship in it, 
complying with the only condition on which his noble 
gift was made. Thus encouraged in the beginning of 
their enterprise, they went on with confidence. In num- 
ber they were few ; but they were strong in character, 
strong in purpose, and stronger yet in the conviction 
that their cause was just. 



* Jonathan D wight. Esq. 



MEMOIR. 



11 



" The controversy which was raging elsewhere had not 
then reached this town. The separation was owing, if I 
am rightly informed, to causes and questions not con- 
nected with the Unitarian faith, which was then spread- 
ing in the eastern part of the State. The seceders gen- 
erally held to Arminian or old-fashioned Calvinistic opin- 
ions, as they were then called, meaning opinions from 
which nearly all but the name of Calvinism had died 
away. Our church was consecrated in 1819, by some 
of the neighbouring clergy, and it is not on record that 
any inquisition was made respecting the sentiments of 
its members. Some of those clergymen also exchang- 
ed with me when I was preaching as a candidate to 
this people. The person who officiated as a candidate 
before me was a professed Calvinist, and his preaching 
was very acceptable to some of the society. The preach- 
er who was employed to supply the desk was an Ortho- 
dox divine from a neighbouring State, who at the time 
retained, also, his former opinions. I refer to these 
facts, not as of much interest in themselves, but as 
parts of our history unknown, probably, to some of 
those who have risen up to take the places of the men 
by whom the foundations of the society were laid. 

" As I had received my education at Cambridge, it 
was inferred that I held the sentiments which prevailed 
there, and thus the Unitarian question was at once open- 
ed, and a spirit of inquiry excited. Many began to ex- 
amine their former sentiments, and to compare them 
with the word of God. Of this number was Mr, Hun- 
tington, who was then supplying the desk, and Dr. How- 
ard, whose name will always be spoken with reverence 
here. Though they had often preached the doctrine of 



12 



MEMOIR. 



the Trinity, and had no doubts of its truth, they could 
not reconcile it to their conscience to dismiss the sub- 
ject without inquiry. They did inquire, first examining 
our Saviour's testimony concerning himself, and then 
searching for all the light which inspiration gives ; and 
the consequence was a conviction, on their part, that the 
doctrine was not sustained by the word of God. Others 
went through the same investigation, and came to the 
same result. x\s the ecclesiastical bodies felt bound to 
censure those who after the way which they called heresy 
worshipped the God of their fathers, their claim to 
power was asserted and resisted with equal zeal. The 
alienation spread fast and far ; breaking the ties which 
bind men to each other, separating those whom God and 
nature had united, giving to religious sects the spirit of 
political factions, and making every church a fortress, 
always armed for war with the hostile party. Such were 
the times in which my ministry began : it is sufficient to 
say of them, that all who lived through them would pray 
that they might never see their like again. But it gives 
me pleasure to say that the pastor of the First Church * 
has been uniformly kind and friendly towards me, from 
the beginning to the present day ; and from his society 
I have received many expressions of kindness and re- 
spect, and none whatever of ill-will." 

In another portion of the same Address, he explains 
the course which his sense of duty led him to pursue in 
the beginning of his ministry. He had never any dis- 
position to engage in theological or any other controver- 
sy. No man ever studied more the things that make 



* The Rev. Samuel Osgood. D.D. 



MEMOIR. 



13 



for peace ; he would have been content to be called pu- 
sillanimous, but he could not be content to incur the 
charge, with a consciousness of its justice, of having ex- 
cited or encouraged any vindictive or unchristian pas- 
sions. His course in this respect was approved by the 
calm judgment of his maturer years ; and its wisdom 
was afterwards made apparent in the kind feeling which 
has always marked the relations subsisting between his 
society and other Christians around them. It was but a 
few years after his settlement, that a highly respected 
member of the society from which his own had separated 
declared, that his coming had been a real and great 
blessing to the place. 

" As soon as I took charge of the pulpit, a question 
rose up before me. Should I consider it my duty to ex- 
plain and extend the Liberal opinions, or should I de- 
vote myself to the personal improvement of the members 
of my society, trusting that the truth with respect to 
doctrines would make its own way in the public mind ? 
In pursuing the former course, I should have struck the 
key-note of the general feeling ; zeal of this kind ex 
cites a ready sympathy, and the want of it is regarded 
as tameness. Such a course would have added more to 
our numbers than any other, and many plausible reasons 
might have been given to show that it was the right one. 
It would have been easier, also, for myself. I remem- 
ber being told by a distinguished physician, that he was 
seldom consulted by controversial preachers ; their ser- 
mons were written without any of that labor of mind 
which wears students down. But I could not persuade 
myself that this was the way of duty. I knew that as 
fast and as far as party passions are excited, devotion 
2 



14 



MEMOIR. 



and charity are apt to forsake the breast ; I was well 
aware that many are made Unitarians, Calvinists, Bap- 
tists, and sectarians of every name, without being made 
Christians by the same conversion. 6 I therefore deter- 
mined,' if it is not presumption in me to use the words, 
' I therefore determined to know nothing among you 
save Jesus Christ, and him crucified.' Since men were 
sent into the world, not to put on the livery of a party, 
but to lay the foundations of character in preparation for 
immortal life, I would always spend the best of my 
strength to impress this solemn and indispensable duty 
on all whom my voice could reach.* 

" In looking back upon this determination at the dis- 
tance of more than twenty years, I see in it nothing to 
regret ; but I do see in it a strong reason for gratitude to 
the society which, in such times of excitement, permitted 
me to pursue a course so unpopular, obscure, and unlike- 
ly to add to their numbers. I have been grateful to 
them for many things, but most of all for this. It is not 
every society which would have consented to it, though 
perhaps, in these peaceful times, the present generation 
cannot understand how great a sacrifice of feeling was 
necessary to receive the fire of other sects without re- 
turning it, to keep the white flag flying in the midst of 
the war, and to maintain that moderation which requires 
strength of character and principle, but which is treated 
by partisans with supreme disdain. But whatever the 



* In a letter to a friend in Salem, dated March 6th, 1820, we find 
the following sentiment : — "I have seen no hostility whatever tow- 
ard the other society, and I am sure that I shall not attempt to excite 
it. I hope they will never contend, except in showing which opinions 
have the best influence upon the character." 



MEMOIR. 



15 



sacrifice may have been at the time, I am persuaded that 
no one repents it now. They have lived to see that 
he who goeth forth weeping, bearing precious seed, 
shall doubtless return rejoicing, bringing his sheaves 
with him." 

It is not easy for one who knows Springfield only as 
it is now, to imagine how completely insulated was the 
situation of a minister of the Liberal faith five-and-twenty 
years ago. Mr. Peabody found all the support and 
encouragement he could ask in the kindness of his par- 
ishioners, and in particular from the venerable Dr. 
Howard, once the minister of the First Society, whose 
friendly counsels were always wise and useful ; a man 
who, by his genuine and unaffected sincerity, and fervent 
piety, combined with intellectual powers of no common 
order, commanded the regard and reverence of all. 
But his labors were unremitted and severe. Exchanges 
with his brethren of other persuasions, he had none ; 
very rarely any with those of his own. He has been 
heard to say, that there was a period of eighteen months 
during which he preached without an exchange or any 
relief whatever. His own account of some of the diffi- 
culties under which he labored is given in the Address 
from which large extracts have been already made, and 
which may be regarded as an autobiography of this 
portion of his life. 

" I was younger and less experienced than most 
clergymen when they are settled ; not acquainted with 
navigation till far at sea. Others have those of their 
own profession near them to whom they can look for 
sympathy and counsel in their trials ; it was not so with 



16 



MEMOIR. 



me. I had but one such friend,* and, wise and excellent 
as he was, the disparity of age, and social changes that 
had taken place since he left the profession, rendered it 
difficult for him sometimes to understand my feelings. 
Others have those near them with whom they can ex- 
change labors on the Sabbath ; but, as you well know, 
there were none who would afford me that relief. Know- 
ing that a preacher who does not keep his mind in con- 
stant action and improvement soon loses his influence 
with all intelligent people, I felt that my preparation for 
the desk must be attended to, whatever else might be 
left undone. I found that the field of duty was larger 
than I could fill. I was bewildered and oppressed, — 
more oppressed than words can tell. I well remem- 
ber how, on returning after an absence, my heart would 
die within me as I came within the sound of the evening 
bell ; it reminded me of claims that I could not an- 
swer, and wants that were not supplied. Again and 
again I determined to cumber the ground no longer, 
though I felt that in leaving you I should be going from 
my chosen home. I know not how it was that I per- 
severed ; having obtained help of God, I continue to 
this day, certainly to my happiness, however it may have 
been for you." 

He did not spare his labors ; and it was not long be- 
fore they began seriously to affect his health. In the 
summer of 1821, his eyesight was so much impaired 
that serious apprehensions were entertained of the ne- 
cessity of his retiring from the ministry. But in the 
following year, the prospect grew even darker. For 



* Eev. Dr. Howard. 



MEMOIR. 17 

several months he was in a state of extreme debility, 
Yfhich compelled him wholly to desist from every kind of 
labor. Late in the autumn, however, he was so far re- 
stored as to be able to resume his duties. But during 
the wiiole period of his ministry, he never regained the 
free use of his eyes, and probably never knew what it was 
to enjoy the feeling of entire health. It was his usual 
practice to write two discourses in each week, and to 
these was commonly added a weekly lecture for the illus- 
tration of the Scriptures. From the accounts given us 
by those who listened to him in the earlier period of his 
ministry, there can be no doubt that his preaching was 
then touching and impressive. He had no leisure for 
the preparation of very elaborate discourses, and had no 
taste for controversial divinity whatever. His aim was to 
enkindle the spiritual life in the hearts of those who 
heard him ; and with this end in view, he dwelt but lit- 
tle on disputed doctrines, and cared little for the pecu- 
liarities of sects. Love to God and man, — the attrac- 
tive divinity of holiness as manifested in the character of 
Jesus Christ, — the qualities and graces by which man 
is brought into resemblance to the Saviour and to God, 
— these were the points on which he dwelt with the 
greatest earnestness and satisfaction. He was deeply 
solicitous to cherish in himself, and to inculcate upon 
others, that unfailing charity and kindness without which 
Christianity is but a light-house tower in which no flame 
is kindled. He was never inclined to ascertain and 
point out what was wrong in other sects, so much as the 
particulars in which they might be imitated, and was ev- 
er ready to express his love and admiration of the pure 
and eminent, who have given lustre to them all. All 
2* 



18 



MEMOIR. 



those, of all persuasions, who loved the Lord Jesus in 
sincerity, were to him as brethren. This spirit of love 
was the ruling principle of his life ; and probably no 
hearer of his was ever induced by his persuasion or ex- 
ample to indulge in a spirit censorious or harshly critical 
towards any other human being. 

From this period until the close of his ministry, he 
was quietly but diligently employed in the discharge of 
his duty. The course of his life was varied by few inci- 
dents which the public would be interested to know ; and 
without dwelling any further upon these than may be ne- 
cessary for the illustration of his history, I shall endeav- 
our to draw from portions of his correspondence, as well 
as from information derived from other sources, a faith- 
ful transcript of his mind and heart. It has already 
been said, that from the outset there was an evident prog- 
ress and change in both. As he advanced in life, he 
withdrew his attention more and more from the subjects 
of ordinary interest and contemplation, to concentrate it 
upon the greatest which can engage the thoughts of an 
immortal mind. 

Some of his leisure hours were given to poetry. He 
never, however, attached much consequence to his ef- 
forts in this department, and, though his productions 
were quite numerous and attracted much attention, nev- 
er thought it worth his while to collect and preserve 
them. There was one of these which some yet remem- 
ber, though copies of it are no longer to be found. 
This was a Poetical Catechism for the use of the young, 
which was written and published in the year 1823. He 
was induced to write it by a persuasion that an enumer- 
ation in verse of the principal duties of religion would 



MEMOIR. 



19 



be studied by children with more pleasure, and remem- 
bered longer, than the common catechisms in prose ; 
and the experiment succeeded according to his wishes. 
Several pieces were subjoined to this catechism, which 
were designed to connect whatever is beautiful in nature 
with religious feelings in the minds of the young. Many 
of these have been transferred to other publications, 
and may still be found in collections of sacred poetry. 
Among them, that which begins with the words " Be- 
hold the western evening light " is generally known, and 
seldom fails to find an answering chord in the reader's 
heart. At the request of a relative who was engaged 
in the publication of a newspaper in his native place, 
he contributed for a year or two freely to its columns, 
and wrote most of the pieces by which his poetical tal- 
ent became known. He also wrote occasionally for the 
annuals, and in compliance with the request of friends, 
whom he was unwilling to refuse ; but his interest in the 
employment passed away with his youth, and though he 
never wholly ceased to write, he did it only when some 
occasion required a hymn or other production more ap- 
propriate than any that could be readily selected. 

He doubtless formed too low an estimate of his poet- 
ical writings. The highest exhibition of talent is not 
often found in brief effusions, like the genii in the little 
box. His were invariably marked by uncommon grace 
and beauty of versification, and by deep, true, and ele- 
vated feeling ; and it is hardly just to infer that loftier 
qualities of poetry have no existence, because they are 
not found where they are not wanted. 

On the 8th of September, 1824, Mr. Peabody mar- 
ried Miss Elizabeth Amelia White, daughter of Moses 



20 



MEMOIR. 



White, Esq., of Lancaster, New Hampshire, a lady of 
uncomnion loveliness of person and character. His el- 
dest child, Fanny, was born in the following year. The 
history of both was afterwards mournfully blended with 
his own. No man could be more blessed than he was 
in all that constitutes a home. In the progress of this 
narrative, it will become essential to dwell somewhat at 
large upon the admirable qualities that gave his wife 
such a hold upon his heart, and endeared her to all who 
knew her. 

He was now in a position precisely suited to his taste 
and feeling ; connected with a religious society, to whose 
welfare and improvement he devoted himself with his 
whole heart ; and who repaid his care by a respect and 
love which were never impaired during the whole period 
of their connection, and went on increasing to the last. 
His mind was always active ; and he found a relief from 
his severer toil in the contemplation and study of nature, 
— a study which, inspiring as it is, is cultivated only by 
a few. There was no department of natural science in 
which he was not interested ; there was none with which 
he was not in some degree familiar ; but he devoted 
his leisure principally to those branches which circum- 
stances made it most easy for him to pursue. His 
knowledge of plants and of forest-trees was very accu- 
rate and extensive ; and he occasionally delivered lec- 
tures upon them, and other branches of natural history, 
which were heard with interest and pleasure. It was 
always delightful to him to inspire a taste for these pur- 
suits in the minds of the young, because he believed it to 
be intimately connected with religious feeling. In one 
of these lectures, he says : — 



MEMOIR. 



21 



u Perhaps you may remember the child mentioned by- 
Wilson, who came in with a radiant countenance to his 
mother, bringing a handful of wild flowers, saying, 4 0, 
what beautiful flowers : the woods are full of them, 
— red, — orange, — blue, — 'most every color ! I can 
gather a whole parcel of them, much handsomer than 
these, all growing in our own woods ! Shall I, mother ? 
Shall I go and bring more ? ' The naturalist said that 
the feeling of the child precisely resembled his own. 
Would it not be easy to cherish that fine enthusiasm of 
youth till it becomes an intellectual desire of knowledge ? 
I think it would. We know how easily the eye glides 
over a sweet evening prospect to the clear heaven be- 
yond : so it passes of itself, and without effort, from the 
contemplation of nature, up to nature's God." 

For several years he occupied a detached building as 
a study, situated in his garden. In this retired spot, he 
had an opportunity of becoming acquainted with the va- 
rieties of birds, and of studying their habits. This per- 
secuted race have abundant sagacity to distinguish the 
idle destroyers, from whom it is well that they can fly, 
from those who are disposed to be their friends. With 
these they are glad to be familiar, as if to show that 
they deserve more attention and better treatment than 
they have ever yet been able to secure. Mr. Peabody'3 
researches on this subject were curious and minute ; 
more so than is usually to be expected from one whose 
mind is earnestly employed upon more important things. 
But he endeavoured to bring all his occupations into har- 
mony with the great object to which his life was devoted, 
and he believed that this pursuit would not be without 
its value, if it should enable him to cultivate a taste for 



22 



MEMOIR. 



it in the children of his charge, before they learn from 
the example of their elders to become acquainted with 
birds only for the purpose of tormenting or destroying 
them. There is extant among his papers a series of lec- 
tures, delivered before the Sabbath school of his society, 
in which the subject of plants and birds is treated in a 
manner that could not fail to engage the attention of 
the young. These were illustrated by drawings, made 
and colored by his own hand, with an accuracy and 
beauty which would have done no discredit to the skill 
of an accomplished artist. Indeed, in youth he exhib- 
ited a decided taste for drawing, and, though he subse- 
quently ceased to cultivate it, practised the art occa- 
sionally for the benefit of his friends, or for some pur- 
pose of his own. There is reason to believe that the 
instructions to which I have alluded were not without a 
lasting and beneficent effect upon the minds of those 
who received them. 

What requires further to be said concerning the inter- 
est which he took in natural history may as well be 
stated here. About the year 1830, the magnificent 
publications of Mr. Audubon began to draw the atten- 
tion of many to the science of ornithology, which his 
enthusiasm and unwearied industry have done so much 
to advance. One of his volumes was made by Mr. 
Peabody the subject of an article in the North Ameri- 
can Review ; and this was the beginning of an acquaint- 
ance between them, which continued through his life. 
Several other articles upon subjects connected with 
natural history, about the same period, may be remem- 
bered by some of the readers of that journal. Most of 
them, if not all, were written by Mr. Peabody. and 



MEMOIR. 



23 



were distinguished by a style well calculated to render 
them attractive, animated, clear, and vigorous, and en- 
livened by a delicate and playful humor. He was also 
the author of a Life of Alexander Wilson, for the Amer- 
ican Biography published by Mr. Sparks, in which the 
touching history of that ill-fated pioneer is feelingly and 
beautifully told. 

In 1837, a survey of the State of Massachusetts, 
having reference to several branches of science, was 
ordered by the Legislature ; and the Governor, Edward 
Everett, was authorized to appoint suitable persons to 
execute the task. He selected Mr. Peabody to pre- 
pare a Report upon the birds of the Commonwealth. 
This Report was completed and published in the year 
1839 ; and it is believed to have answered the end 
which the Legislature had in view. In addition to his 
own researches, he had the liberal aid of other gentle- 
men, who have presented similar ones with great ardor 
and success. His descriptions of the birds and their 
habits are given with a lifelike truth and animation, not 
less engaging to the general than to the scientific reader. 
It answered, also, a higher and a better than a merely 
scientific end. It pleaded the cause of humanity, which 
is so little regarded as respects inferior animals, that the 
suggestion of it seems to many to be little better than 
mere affectation. It would be well if the views which he 
presented on the subject of destroying birds were more 
generally entertained, both by those who indulge in a 
cruel amusement to wile away an idle hour, and by far- 
mers, who secure themselves from a small evil at the 
expense of one incomparably greater, by exterminating 
birds, against whose depredations they can protect them- 



24 



MEMOIR. 



selves, for the benefit of insects, whose ravages bid de- 
fiance to all that man's art and power can do. He 
showed that the farmer is now severely suffering in 
consequence of this ignorance and folly, which place 
difficulties in the way of cultivation that no skill or 
industry can overcome. It is earnestly to be desired 
that what he and other friends of humanity have written 
on this subject may have some effect upon the feelings 
and habits which have every where prevailed. 

It was said by Dr. Gannett, in his discourse at the 
funeral of Mr. Peabody, that " his intellectual qualities 
particularly fitted him to act upon the public through 
that great channel of influence, — to which recent times 
have given a depth and breadth unknown before our 
day, — the periodical press. The clearness and justness 
of his conceptions, the extent and variety of his knowl- 
edge, the ease and elegance of his style, and the calm, 
sweet dignity of his temper, were admirably suited to 
the higher functions of the essayist and the reviewer." 
His first article in the North American Review, on 
" The Decline of Poetry," was written in 1826. From 
this time to 1830, he contributed occasionally to the 
pages of that journal and of the Christian Examiner. 
Then the North American Review passed into the hands 
of Mr. Alexander H. Everett, his brother-in-law, in 
compliance with whose desire he wrote many articles 
during that and the five or six following years. A few 
of his productions may be found in " The Token," 
which was annually published during a considerable pe- 
riod in Boston ; among these, " The Methodist Story " 
may be remembered by some of its readers. By these 
and other productions, he became generally known as a 



MEMOIR. 



25 



writer beyond the limits of his profession. It is unne- 
cessary to enter here into an examination of his merits in 
this department. Those who are interested will proba- 
bly be enabled to form their own judgment from the por- 
tion of his miscellaneous writings which it is the purpose 
of his friends to publish. It is proper to observe, that he 
was not induced to engage in this species of writing by 
any love of the occupation. He did it partly in com- 
pliance with the request of friends who were engaged 
in the publication of journals and were anxious to pro- 
cure his aid, and partly in order to add something to a 
salary, which, though large as any given to ministers in 
that neighbourhood, was exhausted by a liberal hospital- 
ity and by the demands of an increasing family. In 
the year 1834, he thus writes to a friend : — 

" I fear that, since the enlargement of my family, my 
salary will turn out like our old friend the General's 
well-saved uniform, when he undertook to clothe himself 
in armour at the last war. The uniform had not dimin- 
ished, but the General had extended, — so that, after 
all his attempts to be genteel, it would not meet round 
him by six or eight inches. What is written under the 
inspiration of ambition to turn a penny will not be of 
the first order. They say, however, that easy writ- 
ing makes hard reading. I am sure that mine is not 
easy writing, so that it may answer ; — and yet I can- 
not help saying, with Macbeth, when I have finished an 
article, ' I am afraid to think on what I have done, — 
look on 't again I dare not.' By the way, how little poe- 
try there is which would be taken for verse if the lines 
were written tandem, as above." 

In Mr. Peabody's miscellaneous writings, he occasion- 
3 



26 



MEMOIR. 



ally exhibited a liveliness and humor which always mark- 
ed his familiar conversation, and were often found in his 
correspondence. These traits are so characteristic, that 
we give a few extracts from his familiar letters, which 
may tend to illustrate them : — 

" I must not forget to tell you that we were regaled 
with a concert, last Monday evening, given by some 
performers from Boston. The music was very well, 
such as I have listened to with exemplary patience at 
Boylston Hall when I tried to acquire the taste which 
Nature denied me by attending oratorios : but these per- 
formances are always spoiled for me by the screaming of 
the fiddle, which, for aught I know, may be a great lux- 
ury to the amateurs, but is a great trial to me in sacred 
music. Those who know better say that the music was 
very good ; but I sometimes thought, like the clown in 
Shakspeare, that, if they had any of that sort of melody 
which could not be heard, it would be quite as accepta- 
ble. Speaking of Shakspeare, I do not envy you the 
privilege of seeing Lear performed. No actor's power 
can do justice to my imagination of the character, and, 
if I mistake not, you see it as altered by Dryden or 
Cibber, so that the end of the play is as comfortable 
and happy as that of a modern love affair. Cordelia is 
brought to life by some humane-society process, and the 
old gentleman comes to the throne, where he reigns to a 
good old age. This result is undoubtedly gratifying to 
a benevolent mind, and I believe according to the truth 
of history, — that is, Geoffrey of Monmouth. I remem- 
ber seeing Romeo and Juliet performed, when young, so 
improved that he and Juliet recovered and had a serious 
talk together ; though not called to mourn for them, 
I was deeply affected at the tragic fate of the play." 



MEMOIR. 



27 



Sept. 2, 1834. — " Last week I thought I should 
have been obliged to follow you to the East. The 
change of weather had an unaccountable effect upon me, 
and put Hie so much out of sorts that I feared I should 
have that pretext of ill-health for a journey which Dr. 
P. said that he waited for in vain. But the warmer 
weather that has followed indefinitely postponed that 
prospect, and my physician now thinks that he can patch 
me up so as to make me last a while longer. I was 
oddly affected for a day or two. Circulation seemed as 
much suspended in my system as in the money market, 
and I could not make out to walk half a mile without 
fainting away. I made out, however, to have a service 
on the Sabbath, — not very edifying, but better than 
shutting up the house. You speak about my sermon on 
the Catholics. I preached it on the last Sabbath, and 
it seemed to be listened to with interest. Yesterday I 
had an application from Mr. Sterns, in behalf of others, 
to print it ; but this I declined, thinking that I had 
printed enough in my day, and being well aware that 
the author is the last of the human race who comes to 
such a conclusion. I should be glad to have some facts 
which were stated in it generally known ; but it is a 
question in my mind whether publishing , as it is called, 
in the form of a sermon, would be most likely to make 
them public or to conceal them." 

Dee. 17, 1834. — " I suppose E. keeps you advised of 
all that goes on here, — or rather does not go on ; for a 
general palsy seems to have affected the social system. 
We should be glad even to have phrenology back again ; 
for we are fast hastening to that ideal state in which the 
individual shall be every thing, and associations of every 



28 



MEMOIR. 



description be done away. We looked to the lyceum for 
relief, but Dr. began an extemporaneous anatom- 

ical lecture last Wendesday, to be continued, — how 
long was not stated ; but I fear he will hold on till the 
house is as thin as one of his skeletons. I confess, how- 
ever, that I admired the man's courage ; for I never 
dared to follow the ancient clerical practice so far as to 
announce the after part of the sermon for the after part 
of the day, having fears lest the after part of the audi- 
ence, meantime, should disperse past recall. " 

Oct. 1840. — "lam rather curious to see how far the 
anti-Sabbath-and-clergy mania will extend. I see that 

my old acquaintance, Mr. , is engaged in it ; and 

if he is at all zealous, the movement must be on its way 
down hill, since that is the only direction in which he 
could charge with vigor and effect. I was a good deal 
edified with — — 's explanation, that their desire was to 
have the Sabbath more spiritually observed. In answer, 
I should say, that to put a friend on trial for his life is 
not the happiest way of clearing up his character ; the 
danger may be, that it will throw a suspicion over him 
in the minds of many, which, but for this ingenious 
process of purgation, never would have existed. If they 
have any doubts themselves, the best course they could 
pursue would really be to keep the Sabbath, and see if 

it might not do them some good. She quoted to a 

remark of Mr. , that to oppose such investigations 

implied an apprehension that the institution might not be 
able to stand it. This reminded me of the time and 
again when I have called my children away from my 
neighbour's mill-pond, — they thinking my caution very 
preposterous, no doubt ; but it was not from any alarm 



MEMOIR, 



29 



with respect to the pond, but simply from the fear lest 
they should fall in, — a view of the subject which they 
could not be made to understand. Well, if it is any 
comfort to them to employ their energies in this w^ay, I 
do not know why any one should object. They may dig 
down to the foundation on which Christianity rests, and 
satisfy themselves that their teeth and nails are inade- 
quate to the operation of removing it, so as to clear it 
away, or make it stand more to their minds. "When they 
learn to make the best of things as they are, the in- 
struction will be worth what it costs them." 

" By this time, I suppose you are comfortably estab- 
lished in your new house When I made a sim- 
ilar removal, I set against the increased distance from 
town a clear view of the sky, which I think is better 
than the finest landscape, and well worth a few added 
steps every day for the sake of reaching it. In the sky, 
you have perpetual variety, while the lower prospect is 
always the same ; but they are both good in their way, 
and I rejoice very much in having them united. I 
think you have chosen the right season for removal. 
We always feel more at home in a new habitation after 
having had fires in it, nor do I think we ever get the 
home feeling before. The storm that seems in prepara- 
tion to-day looks very much like the vanguard of winter. 
The real autumn is always pleasant to me. As has been 
said, 4 I love the Sabbath of the year ' ; but I rejoice 
less in the Saturday afternoon, though there are no ser- 
mons to prepare, and Nature does her own preaching 
more eifectually than any human tongue. 

" Our own household wheels keep in motion, and go 
on smoothly, with the exception of those slight difficulties 
3* 



30 



MEMOIR. 



which are found in every domestic concern. No rail- 
roads have as yet been laid in domestic life ; and when 
they are, the human engines will get off the track often- 

er than the cars — — 's principal recreation is 

finding fault with Amelia for her worldliness in always 
doing for other people, when she ought to spend her time, 
like a cat watching a rat-hole, in the care of her own 
heart," 

The farther he advanced in life, the more his taste and 
feeling inclined him to devote himself exclusively to sub- 
jects relating immediately to his profession. The only 
one in which he engaged with enthusiasm was the study 
of the Bible ; this he always strenuously urged upon his 
hearers from the pulpit, and by his lectures, not so 
much in the way of philological research, as to find its 
spiritual meaning. His interest in these inquiries went 
on increasing to the last hours of his life. 

It was on the evening of the 16th of March, 1843, 
that the meeting of the society took place before which 
was delivered the Familiar Address from which extracts 
have been given in the preceding pages. The members 
of the society assembled in a social party, at the house 
of their minister, bearing with them many evidences of 
that liberality of which he had always a large experi- 
ence, and all animated by a spirit of kindness and good- 
will. In his own words, " To be surrounded by so many 
kind and faithful friends, to see a large society assem- 
bled in harmony, to see my own house lighted up with 
joy and gladness, is one of the greatest blessings which 
a God of love could bestow." 

In order to present a more vivid picture of this inter- 
esting occasion, we give a letter written by one who was 
present and entered deeply into its spirit : — 



MEMOIR. 



31 



u It was a gathering together of a whole congregation, 
rich and poor, high and low, in expression of their love 
and sympathy for a pastor who for twenty years has 
been laboring with untiring zeal for their welfare for 
time and eternity. Neither did the expression of good 
feeling stop here. The whole people seemed as much 
bound to each other as to their pastor. For once it 
seemed to be a living reality, not a barren doctrine, that 
we are children of one Father, — bound together by one 
sentiment of love and sympathy. Each one seemed 
ready to grasp the other by the hand, and exclaim, i It 
is good to be here ! ' The whole day on Thursday was 
one of great excitement throughout the parish. Though 
it was considered best to have none at the house but the 
ladies composing the committee of arrangements and 
their aids, yet, after having busied ourselves in packing 
and transporting our offerings, we all found it difficult 
to employ our hands about any of the ordinary business 
of life; — our hearts would be at the parsonage, and 
each one, I believe, felt anxious for the hour of as- 
sembling to arrive. We were from the hours of five to 
eight in gathering together. In the course of that 
time, the house was literally filled with people. Supper- 
tables were spread in the kitchen and dining-room, and 
arranged in a tasteful and beautiful manner. The bed- 
room had been converted into a library for Mr. Pea- 
body ; this and the front parlour were filled, as were both 
lower and upper entry and staircase. The eastern front 
chamber was filled with beautiful and appropriate gifts 
for the pastor, his wife, children, and domestics, to 
each of which was appended the name of the donor or 
the note which accompanied the gift. The room was 



32 



MEMOIR. 



crowded with articles which I shall not attempt to enu- 
merate. Every thing useful and desirable that could be 
thought of was collected, and the first idea on entering 

the apartment was that you were at a fair The 

house was throughout the day thronged with messengers 
bearing their offerings, and Mr. and Mrs. Peabody were 
overwhelmed, as you may suppose. You never saw any 
being look so lovely and happy as Amelia did. Mr. 
Peabody met each one with a cordial grasp of the hand, 
but his heart seemed too full for words. At about half 
past eight, copies of hymns, such as I inclose for you, 
were circulated, in preparation for the religious services 
of the occasion. 

" The first hymn, written by Mr. Peabody, was sung 
to the tune ' From Greenland's icy mountains.' 

4 Bright eyes and cheerful voices 

In the pastor's home to-night ! 
The youthful heart rejoices, 

The burdened one grows light : 
For all with him are bending, 

In sympathy of praise, 
To God, whose love, descending, 

Has crowned them all their days. 

1 Yet when we thus assemble, 

And all the past review, 
The firmest well may tremble, 

To think what death can do. 
The loved ones of our number, 

The holiest, and the best, 
Are sunk in that calm slumber 

That gives the weary rest. 

' But sons, their sires succeeding, 

Each vacant place shall fill ; 
In all these changes reading 
The lessons of His will 



MEMOIR. 



33 



Who spreads his banner o'er us. 

"With waving folds of love. 
And gilds the scene before us 

With mercy from above. 

1 Now for that near communion 

Which binds all hearts in one. — 
For heaven's delightful union. 

In this cold world begun, — 
For that glad faith which raises 

Our dead to life again. 
Let the pastor breathe his praises, 

And the people say, Amen ! ' 

" Fanny played the piano ; several fine voices accom- 
panied her, and, as the piano was close to the door, the 
time was given to those in the entry, and taken from 
them by the rest. Throughout the house, the song of 
praise arose. You know the inspiring effect of such a 
union of voices ; — truly we felt that ' heaven's delight- 
ful union ' had begun below. Next came Mr. Pea- 
body's Address. He took his station upon a chair in 
the front entry, next the front door, — and was heard by 
those above stairs quite as well as by those below. He 
is not yet well and strong ; and, after alluding to the 
memory of those faithful friends who welcomed him 
here, — 6 those warm hands that were then extended to 
him, now in the dust of the grave,' — his feelings over- 
powered him, and he was obliged to stop and have fresh 
air and cold water before he could proceed. You can 
imagine how touching from him would be a review of 
his ministry here. Tears fell fast, I assure you. 

" Next followed the second hymn, sung to the tune 

of ' Dismission Hymn.' 

4 Thou, whose mercy kind and tender 
Blessed the morning of our day, 



34 



MEMOIR. 



Shining still with equal splendor 
On the later hours of day ; — 

1 Thou, who in the hour of trouble 
Sendest angels from on high, 
All our thoughtful joys to double, 
All our anxious tears to dry ; — 

1 Since thy never-failing kindness 
Thus regards us from above, 
Shall we live in selfish blindness, 
All unworthy of thy love ? 

' May that blessing still attend us 
Long as life's swift circle rolls ; 
And in dark temptation lend us 
That strong safeguard for our souls. 

' Let the Heavenly Shepherd, keeping 
Watch on Zion's holy towers, 
Save us, while serenely sleeping, 

Through this night's defenceless hours. 

1 When life's short and hurried story 
Ends in death's profounder rest, 
Crown us with immortal glory 
In the mansions of the blest.' 

" A short and fervent prayer, with a benediction, 
closed a service in which a whole people had united with 
grateful, overflowing hearts. Of course, after this, all 
were too much subdued for the gay tone of hilarity and 
congratulation which had preceded these touching ser- 
vices. We spake one with another in softened tones of 
all that we had enjoyed, and soon after took leave of the 
pastor and his family, and sought our own homes, there 
to repeat over and over again the story of our joys. 

" I did not mention in the right place that Mr. Pea- 



MEMOIR. 



35 



body invited all the children of the society to assemble 
there the next afternoon, at six o'clock, bringing with 
them their parents' copy of the hymns. The children's 
festival was a pleasant thing. There were 117 assem- 
bled, — some of them accompanied by their parents. 
After being fed, they all engaged an hour in sport, after 
which they marched to the piano to be counted. The 
children filled the room, each with the hymns in hand. 
They all united in singing the first hymn. Mr. Peabody 
then made them a short address. After alluding to all 
the kindness he had received from their parents, he told 
them that there was one favor they could show to him. 
He then gave a beautiful and touching account of John 
Abbot Emery,* and told them the favor he would ask of 
rhem would be, so to conduct themselves in life, that, 
when arrived at maturity, he might feel with regard to 
each one of them as he did with regard to hirn, — proud 
to be called his minister and friend. They then united 
in singing the second hymn, after which a prayer and 
benediction closed the service. The children soon took 
their departure, well satisfied with their visit." 

To every human eye, this might have appeared the 
happiest period of Dr. Peabody's life. There was every 
thing in his domestic relations to make him happy ; his 
admirable wife exerted a deep religious influence her- 
self by the winning beauty of her own example, and 

* Son of the late Robert Emery, Esq.. of Springfield, and member 
of the class of 1843 in Harvard University. He was a young man of 
singular purity and promise, loved and honored by all who knew him. 
He died at Exeter. X. H.. after a short illness, in the early part of his 
Senior year. October, 1842. At the request of his classmates. Mr. 
Peabody delivered a funeral address, the week after his death, in the 
College Chapel at Cambridge, which was published. 



36 



MEMOIR. 



thus powerfully aided that influence of his for good over 
the hearts of others which it was his great ambition to 
possess. They had been united for nearly twenty years 
by a deep sympathy and affection, which were becoming 
deeper and more tender as they went farther on in life. 
His children were affectionate, and full of that promise 
which is a priceless treasure to a parent's heart. He 
enjoyed the cordial respect and good-will of all his 
Christian brethren, of every name, and the devoted love 
of those to whom he had ministered so long. Even his 
spirit, not usually sanguine or very ardent in his hope, 
was lifted up by the conviction that his labors had not 
been in vain. There was a general and earnest interest 
in religious things, which gave the assurance of a richer 
harvest in the time to come. But his faith was yet to 
be severely tried, and to be made perfect through suf- 
fering. It was decreed by Providence, that she who 
had been the light of his existence was soon to be with- 
drawn, and to go before him to the eternal world. 

I have already spoken generally of the character and 
influence of this excellent woman ; but a more extended 
view of both will seem indispensable to all who knew 
her, and may not be without some interest and value to 
those who knew her not. It may seem to some to be 
drawn by a too partial hand ; to her friends it will cer- 
tainly appear inadequate and cold. She was one of 
those who seem born to be loved, who win the regard 
of strangers at the first interview, however transient, and 
inspire an enthusiastic affection in those who are privi- 
leged to be near her. In youth she was eminently lovely, 
and the charm of expression was undimmed when the 
bloom of youth was gone. Her manners were cordial. 



MEMOIR. 



37 



kind, and graceful. Her presence gave brightness alike 
to the social meeting, the chamber of sickness, and the 
retreat of poverty, because whatever she said was felt 
to be the beautiful expression of a generous and sym- 
pathizing heart. There vras no disguise about it, — all 
was perfectly frank, open, and sincere. She never 
thought of herself when there was an opportunity of 
doing any thing to promote the happiness of others ; 
and all was done with a perfect self-forgetfulness, a 
ready and unconscious sacrifice of her own wishes and 
convenience to theirs, and a scrupulous and delicate 
regard to their feelings, which no jealousy or suspicion 
or embittered feeling could resist. There was no 
scheme of rational benevolence into which she did not 
enter, no errand of mercy which she was not ready to do. 
All this was so free from the slightest taint of affectation, 
that it may have seemed to many to be nothing but the 
result of the impulses of a generous nature ; but those 
who knew her intimately saw in it the fruit of self-disci- 
pline, watchful and severe ; of a constant and most faith- 
ful study of the Scriptures, with the determination to 
make its precepts the unfailing rule of daily life ; of fer- 
vent love and habitual imitation of her Saviour, and of 
private communion with her God. It was thus that she 
shed a pure and cheering light around her, winning hearts 
to virtue and religion by the beauty of her holiness. 

It ought to be added, that the graces of her mind 
were in no respect inferior to the other portions of her 
character. She had much power of reflection, and 
wrote with facility and elegance. A little work of hers, 
written some years ago, for children, attracted much at- 
tention, and is not yet forgotten. But the powers of her 
4 



38 



MEMOIR. 



mind were applied, with singular fidelity and earnest- 
ness, to the securing of her own improvement and the 
performance of her duty by the constant and intelligent 
study of the Scriptures ; to become familiar with their 
spirit as well as with the words ; to search into their 
whole meaning, and to derive lessons from them for the 
conduct of her life. Thus the views which she would 
sometimes give of certain passages were always judicious, 
and not unfrequently original ; and they were felt by 
those who heard them to be the result of the most seri- 
ous thought and the most earnest inquiry. 

I cannot but think that those who are ambitious of 
such excellence will be gratified by obtaining a nearer 
view of the manner in which hers was attained and 
cherished. The desire to promote the welfare of others 
was always uppermost in her mind ; and if any thing 
in her example can be of aid or use to any, she would 
not herself have desired that it should be withheld. 
With this persuasion, I do not hesitate to set before the 
reader certain portions of her private diary : — ■ 

" From this time forward, may I be able to forget the 
things that are behind, and press forward to the prize of 
- the mark of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus our 
Lord. And to this end I propose these following rules 
to myself : — ■ That when I first rise in the morning, I 
will try to induce the spirit of grateful praise and 
prayer toward my Heavenly Father, and, as a help to 
a truly devotional exercise of soul, I will try to enter 
into the spirit of the Psalms. After breakfast, I will 
try to concentrate my thoughts on the authority of God, 
that I may feel more strongly my obligation to render a 
filial obedience to his will, and devote myself in all 



MEMOIR. 



39 



things to his purposes, and not my own. And to this 
end I will read a portion of my Saviour's history, in order 
to obtain an intimate perception of his success in this 
obedience. 

" To-day it has occurred to me, that, to enter into the 
spirit of the Psalms, the most effectual aid would be 
derived from adopting the habit of the Psalmist in tracing 
every circumstance of our life directly to God, and cul- 
tivating that familiar reference to him which would soon 
make us perceive his agency where now we regard it 
not. This seems to have been the origin of David's 
piety, and to have supplied him with a continual flood of 
devotional feeling." 

" And now for the application of our Saviour's ex- 
ample. Can we turn to it without seeing our own way 
clearly pointed out ? He had a mission from his God. 
So has each one of us. Does it seem presumptuous to 
compare the two ? His was infinitely beyond what we 
can have to do. Yes, — but his was suited to his ca- 
pacity, and ours is adapted to ours. How did he prepare 
to accomplish it ? By giving all the powers of his soul 
to a private intercourse with God, that he might discover 
clearly what his Father would have him to do. Cannot 
we take the same course ? and will it not result in a clear 
perception of all our duties ? When the will of God 
was ascertained, his next effort was to dedicate him- 
self heart and soul to that will ; thenceforth he had no 
will of his own. What God gave him to do was the 
business of his life ; what he saw the Father do was his 
principle of action. Do we say we cannot see what the 
Father does ? If w r e devote our spirits to the task 
with that single aim, may we not see the Divine laws 



40 



MEMOIR. 



by which God acts in the natural and moral world ? 
May we not see them, so as to be able to make them 
our own governing principles ? Will not a spiritual ap- 
prehension of the love of God, for instance, follow an 
intense application of our souls to him in order to dis- 
cover it ? Else what means our Saviour's exhortation, 
4 Be ye one with me, as I am one with my Father,' 
and the words, 4 I have left you an example that you 
should follow my steps ' ? " 

" To give permanence and reality to the impressions 
of duty which enlighten the hour of reflection, and to 
make them serve me in the labor and heat of the day, 
I will set them down, and in that way try to bind them 
upon my heart. In my treatment of my children, and 
such as are committed to my care, I should make all my 
endeavours conspire to one aim ; that they may be gems 
in the crown of their Saviour at the last day ; that he 
may present them to his Father and their Father, as 
fitted for his presence by their nurture in the princi- 
ples of his morality and the affections of his life. The 
duties of life, — I ought to allow no distaste to stand a 
moment against their performance, but consider them 
as the work given me to do, and reflect that no work is 
given me that is not intended to strengthen some j>rinci- 
ple or habit which is to form my soul for its immortal 
duties." 

" He shall say unto them, 4 Inasmuch as ye have done 
it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have 
done it unto me.' Have we ever known, in our experi- 
ence of the various relations of life, a sympathy like 
this ? The fondest parent may feel something akin to 
it in relation to a very dear child ; but mark his words. 



MEMOIR. 



41 



— i one of the least of these my brethren.' It takes 
the very strongest tie of human hearts with the very 
first object of their attachment, to form a comparison 
with his feelings for the least deserving of all. 

66 Does not this expression of our Saviour throw some 
light on the relation between us and him ? Can an inti- 
macy be conceived of, more perfect than this ? Could 
any language describe a more disinterested and compre- 
hensive friendship, or a sensibility to another's welfare so 
immediate and personal ? Is it not really being the vine 
of which we are the branches ? 

" 0, why cannot we reciprocate that friendship, and 
really be in him as he is in us ? Every human being 
ought to be invested, to our eye, with the sacredness of 
our Saviour's anxious love, and that sentiment should 
modify all our feeling toward him. We would not speak 
unkindly of an abandoned person in the presence of his 
father and his mother. And if we had any just con- 
ceptions of our Saviour's relation to the human family, 
how much more delicate would be our deference for 
him ! If so great kindness towards the wretched and the 
destitute warms his heart, what constant arrows must we 
be inflicting on him by our cruel judgments and incon- 
siderate kindness to those for whom he died ! Truly, 
we crucify him again. And must not such wounds, from 
those who know and profess to love him, be far more 
grievous to him than those inflicted upon him by an 
excited and ignorant people, who ' knew not what they 
did ' ? Truly, even his sweet spirit of forgiveness can- 
not say the same of us. 

" Indeed, we are Christians only in name, — the re- 
ality has hardly dawned upon the world. Until we un- 
4* 



42 



MEMOIR. 



derstand his love, and reciprocate it in suitable feeling 
and action, we are barren of the effects of Christianity. v 
"I am desirous to ascertain with distinctness what my 
duty is for the day. It is one of those days of compara- 
tive leisure, when no immediate call seems upon me for 
active employment or spiritual exertion. I find myself 
not indisposed for activity and having a wakeful interest 
for my religious improvement, so that I desire to be 
found in the service of my Master, but see no reason to 
suppose that I shall accomplish any thing for myself or 
others ; for, having no definite purpose as an object for 
the day, it will be likely to pass away in unprofitable 
thoughts. This waste of such days distresses me, be- 
cause I know the time will come when such a portion of 
time will seem invaluable to me, and I shall see distinct- 
ly before me objects of infinite importance, which time 
only is wanting to mature. Here, then, is the time ; — 
where are these objects ? Can they not be called up to 
the mquiring soul ready to embrace them ? Gracious 
Father ! one who longs to be truly thy servant in all 
things humbly waits upon thee at this time, wishing to 
see the exact work which thou hast given her to do. 
She is in time, which is passing away. She fills re- 
lations to thee and to her fellow-beings which have 
their legitimate obligations. She must have something 
to do in this place, and at this time, which can be done 
by no other person, and at no other time. What, then, 
is her duty for this day ? She would not float at random 
even on the waters of life. No, — she would rather 
labor to attain her destined harbour, that when the even- 
ing comes she may be ready to wait on thee, to seek thy 
judgment on her labor." 



MEMOIR. 



43 



Mrs. Peabody's health was not firm, and, previously 
to the summer of 1843, there had been an evident fail- 
ure of her strength. She was, however, so constantly 
active and employed, and preserved at all times so much 
cheerfulness and animation of manner, that no fears 
were entertained of her early departure. The summer 
passed away with its usual course of occupation and 
enjoyment, — the occupations of social and domestic life, 
and the enjoyment of the society of many friends, as 
well as of a large and interesting family. This was, 
perhaps, the period to which her husband would have 
pointed, as the happiest season of his life. But the 
change was soon to come which was to involve all in 
darkness, except that religious faith which did not fail 
him in the hour of his sorrow. 

Late in the month of September, Mrs. Peabody was 
attacked by illness, apparently so slight as hardly to re- 
quire the aid of a physician. But, in a day or two, it 
assumed a more serious character ; not sufficiently so, 
however, to give occasion for alarm. She appeared her- 
self, very early in her sickness, to have a presentiment 
that she should not recover, and employed herself in mak- 
ing arrangements in anticipation of the final change ; and 
one evening asked to have all the children come into her 
chamber, that their parents might together consecrate 
them in prayer to God. After this, and, indeed, through 
her whole illness, a sweet cheerfulness and peace seemed 
to take possession of her soul. It was soon found that 
the remedies which were applied could give her no 
relief, and that her hour was nigh. When her danger 
was made known to her, a heavenly beauty spread 
itself over her countenance ; her spirit was ready and 



44 



MEMOIR. 



anxious to begin its upward flight. But it is needless 
to dwell upon a scene which is described by him 
who was thus bereft in words which will presently 
be given. 

On the 4th of October, her gentle and pure spirit 
went back to God. It was on a beautiful afternoon, 
when the warm breath of summer scarcely moved the 
red leaves of autumn, that her remains were laid in the 
cemetery where those whom she deeply loved are now 
resting by her side. 

Great apprehension was entertained by Dr. Pea- 
body's friends lest the effects of this severe and unex- 
pected blow, upon a frame so delicate and a mind so 
sensitive as his, would give them an occasion of fresh 
sorrow. She on whom he depended, — how much he 
could not know till then, — who had relieved the press- 
ure of his cares, and to whom his heart was bound by 
the fondest affection that the spirit while on earth can 
know, was taken from his sight, and a deep darkness 
settled on his earthly hopes and prospects. But in this 
moment of fear and of sorrow his heart did not fail. 
Never did his religious faith shine forth with so bright 
and sustaining power as then. The light seemed to 
come to him from the eternal world. He felt that he 
could lean upon the Everlasting Arm ; the peace that 
passeth understanding visited his soul. He found the 
inspiration of his Saviour's words of love, and obtained 
the strength and consolation which he needed by com- 
munion with his God. It is with the view of throwing 
light upon his own character and the varied excellence 
of her whom he had lost, that the words which he ad- 
dressed to his society on the Sabbath following her death 



MEMOIR. 



45 



are here given at length. They were uttered extempo- 
raneously, but were subsequently written down at the 
desire of his friends. 

There was something in the circumstances under 
which they were delivered which rendered them pecu- 
liarly impressive. It was on the usual day of the com- 
munion service, when it had been his habit, in the place 
of the usual sermon, to make a short address. He 
stood there in the midst of long- tried friends, every one 
of whom was a sharer in his grief, and was bound to him 
by the deepest sympathy. Worn and heart-broken as 
he was, he felt that he could then speak to them with 
a power drawn from the scenes through which he had 
passed ; and he did speak to them from the fullness of 
his heart, — with an eloquence which those who heard 
it will remember to their latest day. 

" It seems a long time, my friends, since I spoke with 
you last. It seems as if winters of desolation had been 
crowded into a few short, stern days of misery, since 
I spoke with you last. With that vacant place before 
me, with one thought upon my heart, — 0, how heavy 
on my heart ! — I cannot avoid the subject of my 
sorrow. There is no reason why I should. You will 
not wish that I should. But, strangers as we are to 
our own hearts, I feel that it is not to make a display 
of mourning that I address you thus, nor is it to ask 
for greater sympathy. There cannot be greater sympa- 
thy than I have had from the kind, warm hearts around 
me. No. It is because there is a word which I am 
bound to speak, and which, therefore, I have the power 
to speak. 

" But we must turn a moment from all other thoughts 



46 



MEMOIR. 



to the one suggested by those words of heavenly com- 
fort which have been just read. They present the im- 
age of the Saviour sitting in awful majesty within the 
very shadow of death. Yet all his concern is for others ; 
he takes up their burden when almost sinking under his 
own. It is believed that those who are to die a violent 
death have a peculiar and sad expression ; such, I am 
sure, he must have had that night, and they who were 
near him must have seen it upon his brow. With the 
short and bloody path in which he is to travel to the 
cross, — with the black cross itself before him, he says 
to his disciples, ' Let not your hearts be troubled.' He 
comforts them ; he gives peace, his own Divine peace, 
to their souls. At length he rises, with the words, 
' That the world may know that I love the Father ; and 
as the Father gave me commandment, even so I do. 
Arise, let us go hence.' And he goes forth serenely to 
his doom. We can see that pale procession, in the 
chill moonlight, which falls upon the leaves by the way- 
side and suggests the figure of the vine ; and thus hav- 
ing loved his own, he loves them unto the end. Man of 
sorrows, well didst thou finish the work that was given 
thee to do ! 

" But the fear of death was more easily overcome 
than some other feelings. After the mighty effort which 
he had made to suppress his own emotions for the sake 
of others, a horror of deep darkness came over him, 
which was infinitely worse than the fear of death. Do 
not ask what it was. Words could not describe it. It 
came partly from the exhaustion of the system ; still more 
from a rushing of confused and struggled feelings, which 
poured in like a trampling crowd upon his soul. Any 



MEMOIR. 



47 



one who has been worn with suffering may form some 
idea of what it was. This horror it was which for a 
moment overcame and crushed him to the ground. His 
agony was not his misery, but the strife with his misery, 

— the effort which he made to bring his feelings into 
harmony with his Father's will. As the shuddering 
chill comes over him, he cries from the dust, 6 0 Father ! 
if it be possible, let this cup pass from me ! ' Again 
the overwhelming passion bears away all resistance. 
Again he implores to be spared ; and the bloody sweat 

— for such things have been — is wrung from his 
burning brow. But soon the warfare is accomplished ; 
the storm in his breast is over ; he lifts his head, radi- 
ant with submission, saying, ' The cup which my Father 
hath given me, shall I not drink it ? Father, thy will be 
done ! ' 

" And this was for us. We are all to die. Some of 
us are to pass through scenes of anguish, — not like his, 
0, not like his ! — but bitter enough to shake all the firm- 
ness of the soul. Then they must struggle as he did to 
bear it with hearts resigned and true. Then they must 
pray as he did. They will need no visible angel from 
heaven to strengthen them, for the Lord Jesus himself 
will bend over them with the deepest tenderness, not 
wishing that they may be spared, for that would be to lose 
a blessing, but encouraging them to be faithful, and so to 
reach the full salvation of God. 

" And now the fear of death ! How far can man 
rise above it ? I mean, when it comes full before him. 
For there are many dying men whose minds are clear, 
but who are such utter strangers to God and eternity, 
that they are not troubled, and have no bands, fearing 



48 



MEMOIR. 



nothing, because they know not what it is to die. But 
when one realizes all that is before him, and his soul is 
profoundly impressed with the change which he is pass- 
ing through, can he rise above it ? Can he speak peace 
to others with an untroubled heart of his own ? He 
can ; — he can. Others since the Saviour have been 
able through him to do it, and if we are faithful, others 
will do it again. 

" And now I turn to myself, or rather to my depart- 
ed friend. In the beginning of her sickness, she asked 
me to attend with her to some arrangements which w^ould 
be necessary in case she should not recover. Some 
time after this, she asked me to perform some duty for 
her unless she should recover. Those words struck to 
my heart. I begged her not to speak so again, but she 
said we were prepared for every thing. Her anxiety 
w r as, that no obligation should be forgotten ; and she 
went through every thing with that perfect system which 
she had always conscientiously observed. The fierce 
disease went on ; every thing that skill and kindness 
could do was tried in vain, till early in the fatal day she 
observed a change in the manner of those about her. 
She wished to know what we feared, and when she was 
told, a light as of morning came over her face ; it was 
perfectly resplendent with a smile of beautiful gladness. 
She clasped her hands, saying, 4 Is it possible ? Am I 
so early to be blessed ? Shall I so soon be with my 
Saviour and my God ? ' But her thoughts, as usual, 
turned at once from herself. She was anxious to re- 
deem the time for the sake of others. She called us 
singly near to her, and, with many words of affectionate 
counsel, bade us each farewell. She earnestly desired 



MEMOIR. 



49 



to see as many of her friends as possible ; for death 
itself could not make such a heart cold. They came, — 
they stood near her bed : and many who were present 
can describe the scene. I am confident they will re- 
member it ; they will think of it in their own closing 
hours. One thing was most of all impressive : she did 
not express one word of anxiety for her family, nor for 
the one that was nearest to her heart. It never entered 
her mind that God would not care for them. Her whole 
manner, her voice, her smile, seemed to breathe of the 
eternal world. I cannot divest myself of the conviction, 
that the corruptible had already put on incorruption, and 
the mortal immortality. And so she fell asleep. After 
a few words of inexpressible tenderness, she closed her 
dying eyes. Surely on my eyes never opened a scene 
of equal glory ! 

" But I pass from this wonderful scene. It cannot 
be described to those who did not see it, and those who 
did see it will never forget. I would ask, or rather I 
would say, whence came this serenity in the dying hour. 
It was nothing supernatural ; it was the direct, the natu- 
ral, the inevitable result of that love of God and man, 
which she had so faithfully cherished in her soul. Of 
her benevolence, I must say, — why should I not say it? 
— her heart seemed pure, warm, and all-embracing as 
the heaven ; it was always my admiration. 6 It is high, 
I cannot attain unto it,' was ever the feeling which it 
inspired. Never indifferent, — never discouraged, — 
never weary ; always rejoicing with them that rejoiced, 
and weeping with them that wept. I do not believe that 
a spirit more entirely free from the stain of selfishness 
ever dwelt in this world below ; — loving her friends 
5 



50 



MEMOIR. 



most fondly, and at the same time loving all. Not one 
shadow of coldness, jealousy, or suspicion ever darkened 
her clear breast. Of her devotion, I must say, what 
others were less likely to know, that she labored, and 
watched, and prayed, to make it what it was. It was 
her daily, constant care to keep it alive. All the wants 
of the physical system were kept in stern subjection ; 
self-indulgence was a thing which she never seemed to 
know. Every morning it was her first joy to retire to 
her closet to read the Scriptures, to pour out her soul to 
God, to spread before herself all the duties of the day. 
When she sat in her chamber, the word of God was 
always near her ; and at evening, "exhausted as she al- 
ways was with incessant activity, i she summed the ac- 
tions of the day each night before she slept.' It was 
impossible, that, living near to God as she did, she 
should go a stranger to the land of souls. She could 
have no other than 6 a golden set.' Such a life must be 
crowned with an appropriate and inspiring close. I en- 
treat you to remember the path in which she travelled to 
the tomb. Be open as day to sympathy ; go about do- 
ing good ; be faithful and confiding to your God, and 
you will die the death of the righteous, and your last 
end will be like theirs. 

" And now I would say, with respect to the agony 
through which our Saviour passed, it is one which some 
of his followers at some time of their life will be called 
to struggle through. What is it but the effort to bring 
the whole heart into submission ? It is not easily done. 
There are some blessings which it is bitter as death 
to surrender. Tou lean upon them ; you depend upon 
them ; when they are threatened, it seems perfectly 



MEMOIR. 



51 



impossible for you to let theni go. And when the 
conviction comes upon you like an earthquake, 4 Behold, 
vour house is left unto you desolate,' you feel as 
if it were no use to talk of resignation. You cannot 
have it so ; resigned you cannot be. You clasp the 
Bible to your heart ; you make a mighty effort to push 
aside the ghastly vision, and to see it upon the heavenly 
side. Sometimes you seem to succeed ; you struggle 
out of the flood. Then comes the overwhelming reality 
upon you, and down your heart sinks again, till, just at 
the moment when the waters seem closing over you, the 
hand of mercy reaches down to the helpless hand uplift- 
ed from below, and you are saved ; you say, 6 Xot as I 
will, but as thou wilt' ; a peace that passeth understand- 
ing spreads over your spirit ; you can bear every thing, 
and are ready for every thing ; strong in the Lord and 
the power of his might, you can welcome whatever 
comes, not with submission merely, but with a heart 
overflowing with love. 

" If the day should ever come when you shall lose 
the queen of your heart, — if you must see those eyes 
closing which have for years been turned upon you with 
watchful, anxious, never weary love, — if you must see 
that hand pale and motionless, which in sickness was 
pressed affectionately upon your brow, and smoothed the 
pillow for your head, — if you are deprived of the heart 
which in all joys and sorrows answered faithfully, fervent- 
ly, to your own, — see a vacant place at your fireside, 
and feel the dreariness of death throughout your dwell- 
ing, till it makes you sick at heart, — are constantly 
looking and listening for the familiar step and voice, and 
as often sadly reminded that you never shall hear them 



52 



MEMOIR. 



again, — if this dark day should come to you, — far dis- 
tant from you may it be ! — but should it come, you have 
a right to the warmest wishes and prayers of my heart ; 
and the dearest wish I can express, the kindest prayer 
I can offer, is, that God may be as present to your heart 
in solitude and sorrow as he has been and is now in 
mine. 

" It is but natural that I should now look back upon 
the consolations which I have offered you in your sorrow, 
and I find that I have not dwelt sufficiently on that one 
which embraces all the rest : I mean the blessed thought 
of God. I am not conscious now of deriving my sup- 
port from the thought of meeting my best friend again. 
It is a blessing, but it is not the support ; the support is 
the sympathy of God and the Saviour, and their sus- 
taining presence in the soul. I feel that they are with 
me. My heart desires no more. I have not a single 
wish to recall her who was the light of my life. My 
will is in perfect harmony with my Father's. Naturally 
fearful and distrusting though I am, there is no darkness 
before me, there is no darkness around me. All is di- 
vinely bright above me. Without a single misgiving or 
doubt, I shall take my shoes on my feet, and my staff 
in my hand, and go in the way of duty, desolate though 
it is, I trust with more faithfulness than ever, so long 
as it pleases God. 

" I rejoice, therefore, to remember that I have long 
implored you to turn your hearts to God. I knew that 
the willingness to do this was a blessing, but how great 
a blessing I never knew till now. It can make the 
death-bed and house of mourning bright ; it gives peace 
of which I never could have dreamed to the wounded 



MEMOIR. 



53 



and suffering heart. I do entreat you, then, to receive 
this blessing ; the time will come when you will feel 
your want of it, if you do not now. There is no sac- 
rifice which I would not make, there is nothing which I 
would not do or suffer, if I could induce every one be- 
fore me to turn without reserve to the Rock of our sal- 
vation. I do beseech you, then, to open your hearts to 
the heavenly influences ; let the love of your Heavenly 
Father awaken in your hearts some answering feeling 
of love. 

" So shall you be happy in life, and thrice blessed in 
death, like the friend who has gone before you. And 
now may God bless you ! May he lift up the light of 
his countenance upon you ! May he give you peace, 
such peace as she now enjoys, for evermore ! " 

We copy the following passage from a letter to a 
friend, dated October 11th, 1843 : — 

" I have been severely tried since I wrote to you, 
with the necessity for making some efforts which I would 
gladly have shunned, — such as that of speaking on the 
Sabbath. I felt bound to do it, though conscious that I 
should appear weak and foolish ; — there was something 
to be said which I alone could say. The circumstances 
were arranged with the usual kindness ; the rain was so 
severe as to keep away all who had not a particular in- 
terest in attending. The other services were soothing 
and grateful to my feelings, and however I may have ex- 
posed myself, I fully explained the life and religious his- 
tory of my dearest one, so that no one could say it was 
through gifts of nature or peculiar blessing that she tri- 
umphed over death as she did. No, it was by prayer 
and labor that she fought the good fight. Her Sabbath 
5* 



54 



MEMOIR. 



followed six days of labor, not of rest, and I do most 
earnestly pray that all may remember what made her the 
noble creature that she was ; — going about doing good, 
and living near to God." 

Those who have known sorrow will not object to the 
insertion here of some portions of his diary and private 
letters. To some it may appear as if the publication of 
any part of the diary upon which, when he lived, no 
human eye ever rested, were like revealing those sacred 
depths of sorrow and devotion, into which not even the 
fondest affection and sympathy should be allowed to pen- 
etrate. But we remember his own sentiments, as we 
heard them expressed with regard to similar disclosures. 
He felt that they should not be withheld if they could 
benefit any one spiritually. " What is it," he would 
say, " which makes us shrink from imparting our deep- 
est personal experiences but a feeling of self, which is 
not known to the disembodied spirit ? When we have 
left this world, we shall only be anxious that our trials 
and conflicts may aid others in their preparation for 
heaven." Hoping that, from this touching and inspiring 
picture of sorrow and of faith, some persons may feel 
strengthened and consoled under the pressure of sim- 
ilar afflictions, we give the following extracts from the 
diary : — 

October, 1843. — " It was a heavy day when I followed 
my beloved Amelia to the grave. At the funeral ser- 
vice in the church, they sang her favorite hymns, — 
£ Jesus, lover of my soul,' and 6 Rise my soul, and 
stretch thy wings.' I was glad that her form was laid 
where the communion-table usually stands, that I might 
have that powerful and affecting remembrance connected 



MEMOIR. 



55 



with the place. At the grave, where a great number 
were assembled, they sang, ' There is a land of pure 
delight.' And now she lies in those beautiful grounds. 
How I bless God, who disposed me to interest myself 
so much in the preparation of the cemetery ! For all 
that I have ever done for it, verily I have my reward." 

" And now it begins to open upon me why T needed 
this terrible blow. Had we been laid in the same grave, 
as I could have wished and prayed, had it been right, 
we should not have been united in death. She was too 
far above me. She was so heavenly-minded, so char- 
itable, so thoroughly excellent, that, dear as I was to her 
generous heart, I could not have stood at her side. But 
now, perhaps, under the stern teaching of death, in sol- 
itary communion with my own heart, with the inspira- 
tion of her spiritual presence, with the light of her mem- 
ory before me, I may do the duties assigned me, and 
thus form such a character, that, when I go, she may 
stand ready, with her sweet smile and open arms of love, 
to welcome me to the skies. 

" But I bless God that, in the earlier days of my sol- 
itude and sorrow, I did not derive my support from such 
thoughts as this. God was present to me, — I realized 
that he was with me, — and what could I want beside? 
In a condition as helpless and hopeless as possible, I 
was supported by the Everlasting Arm, as if it were vis- 
ibly extended from the skies. I thought not of re- 
union. I was perfectly resigned. I had no wish to alter 
in the least what was appointed me. i The cup which 
my Father hath given me, shall I not drink it ? ' was 
the language of my soul. All these thoughts of conso- 
lation were present, no doubt, but they came not by 



56 



MEMOIR. 



themselves ; they seemed, like all other glorious, happy, 
and inspiring thoughts, to be assembled in the single 
thought of God, and to float in the great ocean of his 
boundless love." 

" God will not leave his work half done. Whether 
we shall have his continued presence or not depends 
upon ourselves ; and as often as I draw near to him, I 
believe he will draw near to me. If the cares of life 
draw us down from our elevated state, our feeling can- 
not be right ; w T e must be ready to do, as well as to suf- 
fer, what pleases God. May I be faithful ! May I re- 
ceive all the cares which come upon me as part of the 
discipline which my character requires ! The chief 
difficulty before me is the management of my children. 
They are young, needing patience, firmness and dis- 
cretion, but, more than all, a forbearing spirit of love. 
May I have that spirit ! May I be saved from every 
impatient action, every harsh word, from every mani- 
festation of haste and displeasure. May I act according 
to my conviction, — for I really believe that love is the 
only means of influence, — it is the only power that can 
be applied. Power over them we cannot have after a 
certain age. May I not have power within them ? I 
have not begun right ; but I shall retrace my steps. I 
shall feel that that angel is smiling upon me when I make 
any effort, and I shall feel that her smile reflects upon 
me the blessing of her Father and my Father, of her , 
God and my God." 

From a letter to a friend we extract the following : — 
" I do not find it the least of my consolations, that 
we have a cemetery in which my treasure can rest, 
where every thing is in perfect harmony with the mourn- 



MEMOIR. 



57 



er's feeling. I go and sit there by night, as the moon- 
light falls upon her grave, with intense enjoyment; — 
yes, to be sincere, I must use those words, even if I ap- 
pear to you like a stock or a stone, — for God seems 
with me, and she seems with me ; every dear thought 
and memory gathers there, and I verily believe that, in 
all the history of my past life, I never have been able to 
form an imagination of heaven which would compare 
with those which have dawned upon me now. 

" And yet the solitude at home, — it is deep, it is 

awful, but it never brings my heart quite down 

Heaven knows how my heart would have leaped to go 
before her, — for I did not think I could have borne her 
loss ; — but, now the order of Providence has gone forth, 
I have no desire except to be true to my duties as long 
as I am able, and then to be ready to go. Surely, the 
devotion of my life will be the least possible acknowl- 
edgment of his unwearied blessing in giving me such a 
treasure, and when he resumed it, giving me the treas- 
ure of her spiritual presence and his own spiritual pres- 
ence in its stead." 

In a letter dated November 2d, 1843, he says : — 
"I am greatly obliged to you for your ever thoughtful 
kindness in sending me ScougaFs Works, which I was 
very desirous to see, Such writers seem to me like 
sympathizing friends, w^hose hearts answer to my own 
like face to face in water, — and what is better, answer 
to that of our common Master. I was very much in- 
terested in the extract from Dr. Channing.* I feel that 

* " The departed have gone to see, to love, and serve the Infinite 
Father, with a new fervor and elevation of spirit, and we should strive 
to sympathize with them, to be joined with them by participation of 



58 



MEMOIR. 



it is true that we may lead a heavenly life below, and 
thus do what my dearest Amelia asked me if I could do. 
' Shall we go on together in the heavenly way ? ' Wheth- 
er she referred to this life or the other I did not know. 
My heart replies, We shall, my love ; } r ou in heaven, 
where you deserve to be, and I alone, but not disheart- 
ened, in the world below, — you hi enjoyment, as is meet, 
and I in discipline and sorrow, as is necessary for me. 
Neither am I dismayed at the rapidity and power with 
which her fine spirit will travel from glory to glory, — 
for, thank Heaven, as it gains in excellence, it will grow 
in sympathy, and I know that her love for me, unworthy 
as I am, will survive all change. Nothing but my utter 
abandonment can ever induce her to tear me from her 
heart." 

After a short absence, he writes : — 

" Nov. 20, 1843. I am happy to get back into my 
own pulpit, where every thing seems like home, the 
audience always attentive and kind in their expression, 
and the associations of the place, both Divine and human, 
exactly what I should desire in the house of prayer. It 
was well calculated to get home on Saturday night, 



their progress. We are apt to feel as if nothing we could do on earth 
bears a relation to what the good are doing in a higher world ; but it is 
not so. Heaven and earth are not so far apart. Every disinterested 
act, every sacrifice to duty, every exertion for the good of 'one of the 
least of Christ's brethren,' every new insight into God's works, every 
new impulse given to the love of truth and goodness, associates us 
with the departed, brings us nearer to them, and is as truly heavenly as 
if we were acting not on earth but in heaven. The spiritual tie be- 
tween us and the departed is not felt as it ought to be. Our union with 
them daily grows stronger, if we daily make progress in what they are 
growing in." 



MEMOIR. 



59 



though I found the most affectionate welcome. Still, 
one was not there. She will never welcome me on earth 
again ; and when Fanny sang my favorite song, — 

" The being beauteous 
Who unto my life was given, 
More than all things else to love me," — 

I was so entirely umanned, as to shed the most bitter 
tears for her who is 6 now a saint in heaven.' 

" My visit has been one of the deepest interest and 
gratification, — to find so many who could understand 
the value of my lost blessing, and, more than all, to find 
you, who so entirely sympathized with me in affection, 
and who follow her with the same intense interest now. 
How we do gaze into the future world ! And we see 
nothing but an image of our own thoughts and emotions, 
as he who looks into the water sees only his own reflec- 
tion below. But we know the way, and that should be 
enough. It seems to be ordained, that, unless we travel 
in the way to it, we shall have nothing but unsubstantial 
fancies of that state ; but if our feet are set in that 
path, a living faith gives us as much and as welcome 
support as if the reality were present to our eyes. 

" I think I shall be faithful. In the long watches of 
the sleepless night I endeavour to study out my duty in 
every possible relation, and, though I have but little con- 
fidence in my own wisdom, I try to make it sure that 
my aim shall be true and high. May God's blessing be 
with me ! He would not take away my right hand and 
right eye without affording me other light to guide me. 
I can always think of what she would wish, and her 
holy fife has made her so nearly one with her Master, 



60 



MEMOIR. 



that I can, without any confusion of thought or irrever- 
ence, think of her when my heart rises up to Grod." 
To the same : — 

" Dec. 3, 1843. My purpose was to write you on 
Thanksgiving day ; but when it came, it was so unlike 
what it had been, that I was perfectly sick at heart. I 
preached on the subject of home, showing how it might 
be desolated by selfishness, and blessed by religious in- 
fluences. I fear that I was myself an example of the 
former, for my dreary condition sat heavy on my soul. 
In my prospect of life every thing attractive and happy 
was connected with her. Now I look forward, and she 
is not there. A wretched vacancy is there. At times 
I could repeat the noble words of Catholic faith, Sur- 
sum corda, 6 Lift up your hearts,' — but my heart 
would sink heavily again. I do not now know whether I 
shall be an example or a warning. But I hope in God. 
Many trials surround me, and the heart knoweth its own 
bitterness ; but he is able to deliver me out of them all. 
Blessed be his name ! " 

To the same : — 

" Dec. 17, 1843. ■ has sent me a few recollec- 
tions of Amelia, which are interesting to me, as they 
would be to you. She says, — ' Amelia was very fond 
of flowers. When she was about three years old, I 
opened the front door one afternoon, and she lay asleep 
in the entry, her shoes filled round the instep with 
ladies'-delights, her fine hair in long ringlets on her 
shoulders, and her cheeks flushed with a beautiful color, 
owing to the exercise she had taken. It was some time 
before I could prevail upon myself to wake her.' So 
it was with her, — beautiful in childhood, beautiful in 



MEMOIR. 



61 



maturity, — 0, how beautiful in heaven! — I shall be- 
hold her, but not now. God give me faith and patience 
to wait his time ! " 

At the period of his wife's death, Dr. Peabody's 
family consisted of four sons, at the ages when they 
greatly needed such a mother's care, and of a daughter, 
the eldest of the five, whose name has been already 
mentioned in these pages. She had now reached the 
age of eighteen, full of talent and animation, earnestly 
devoted to reading and literature, with acquirements not 
generally expected at her period of life, and entering 
with all the ardor of a youthful heart into the pleasures 
of society. But the unwearied industry of her mother 
had saved her from domestic cares, and her tastes in- 
clined her more to others. This was the cause of much 
anxiety to her father ; but it gave him far more, that, 
though reverent and not inattentive to her religious duty, 
she had not heretofore regarded that duty as the great 
object of her life. His hope of domestic comfort, and 
of the welfare of his younger children, now rested on 
her. Her experience in the affairs of the household 
had been very small, nor had she exhibited any very 
general sympathy with those around her. In order to 
impress her mind with a deep sense of the obligations 
which now devolved upon her, and of the spirit in which 
they should be fulfilled, he addressed to her this touch- 
ing letter : — 

" We will look, my dear daughter, at the solemn 
duties which our Heavenly Father has now thrown upon 
us by the translation of our sainted friend. Let us, 
every night and morning, so help us God, think them 
over, to know what we have to do, and how we have 
6 



62 



MEMOIR. 



discharged them. They will hereafter be required at 
our hands. If we are faithful, we shall both be happy, 
for there is but one path to happiness, in life's opening 
and in its decline. But faithful or happy we cannot be, 
without living as she did, — near to God. 

" Let us be affectionate, not only in reality, but in 
word and manner, to the poor children ; they will re- 
quire unwearied patience and care. Let us resolve 
that they shall have it always, and love, cost us what it 
will. Their characters are yet to be formed ; and if 
we show the right spirit and example, the effort will not 
be lost. God grant that our own may not be ruined 
by our unfaithfulness to theirs ! Let us feel it to be our 
duty to make home as pleasant as possible to them. If 
we are false to this duty, and they are driven abroad 
for enjoyment, it may be their ruin. Let us never be 
abroad for our own gratification, when we can give hap- 
piness at home. 

" It is yours now to take the head of the family, and 
to make yourself familiar with those domestic cares 
which heretofore your mother has taken from our hands. 
The arrangement of meals for each day, — the care of 
clothes, furniture, and rooms, — all matters of domestic 
charity, which were so sacredly regarded by your moth- 
er, — the whole superintendence of the household, — 
must necessarily come upon you. Any inattention to 
these obligations may be fatal to the peace and comfort 
of the house. Let us each be faithful to our part. 

" Let us remember how sacredly we are bound to 
cherish her friends. Her domestics were always her 
friends. She treated them with delicacy and tender- 
ness, which resulted in strong attachment on either side. 



MEMOIR. 



63 



Let us follow her example in this, as in all excellence : 
were it only from self-interest, it is the only way to 
secure those kind services and attentions which we all 
need. Happy if they come from the heart ! 

" Above all earthly things, let us keep open hearts to 
each other. Without mutual affection we must be miser- 
able, and it cannot possibly be sustained without a con- 
fidence unreserved and open as day. How much I 
depend upon your affection in my wretched loneliness 
no words can tell. If you can, — and you can be a 
light to the life of your father, — it is worth all the 
effort and sacrifice it may require. 

" I write with many tears. Though God sustains me 
in a manner of which I could not have dreamed, the sud- 
den and total shipwreck of my earthly happiness comes 
over me sometimes in such a manner that I sink broken- 
hearted to the dust. But I feel that affection, duty, 
and God, the elements of the higher life, are still worth 
living for. May I never be false to the steadfast pur- 
pose of my soul, which is to be faithful to my own im- 
provement, faithful to my children, faithful to all others, 
and, most of all, faithful to my God ! 

" Let that voice from the eternal world which we 
heard from the dying lips of your mother be for ever 
treasured in our hearts. Much sooner than we now im- 
agine, we shall be called to follow. May we die the death 
of the righteous, and let our closing scene be like theirs ! " 

Nor were his hopes disappointed. They were ful- 
filled in a measure greater than he had even dared to 
think. A light was breaking through the darkness of 
his desolation. In his diary he says, November 22d, — 
" Fanny appears to enter upon her duties with much 



64 



MEMOIK. 



spirit and discretion. I am greatly encouraged to be- 
lieve that she will unfold very valuable traits of charac- 
ter. She has not been trained, like her mother, in the 
school of adversity. This painful change may be the 
means of making her a finer character than she could 
have been without it. I pray most earnestly that she 
may be true to her Heavenly Father ; this is the most 
important thing. May his blessing be upon her ! " 

In a letter written at the same period, he says : — 
" Fanny is now so well as to go about and attend to her 
duties, showing a very good disposition to be faithful to 
me, and I trust also to a Heavenly Father, whose right 
to her is greater than mine. My affections turn to her 
with the greatest fondness, and she returns it with an 
appearance of love which does much to relieve my 
wounded heart." 

In a letter dated December 3d, he says : — " In my 
last lecture I touched upon the subject of communion, 
showing that it meant, if any thing, holding in common, 
readiness to share our blessings with others, and to let 
them share their cares and sorrows with us. This is 
the real communion, of which our coming together at the 
table is only a sign, — sometimes, it is to be feared, a 

false one To-day I have preached and admitted 

Fanny to the church. God grant that she may be a 
faithful child to him ! If so, there needs no hope or 
wish for me." 

His hopes and prayers were answered. Her char- 
acter was developed by this stern discipline with a ful- 
ness and energy which surprised even those who knew 
her best. Religion and duty were thenceforth her great 
end of life ; and she felt what persons of her age are 



MEMOIR. 



65 



not very apt to feel, that religion cannot have its perfect 
work without that general and active sympathy to which 
Jesus Christ applied the name of love. Her devotion 
to her father was disinterested and unwearied ; and she 
had the greatest joy that a true-hearted daughter can 
feel, in finding that she did very much to soothe his 
desolate heart. She established a powerful influence in 
the minds of her brothers by habitual gentleness and 
kindness. Her temper, somewhat excitable before, be- 
came uniformly patient and serene. She gave her time 
and thoughts to soothing the sorrows and attending to 
the necessities of the poor, making herself personally 
acquainted with their circumstances, and making them 
feel that she was their friend. The child seemed at once 
transformed into the thoughtful woman. Discretion, 
the latest plant of youth's spring-time, was manifested in 
her regard, alike reflecting and devoted, to every duty. 
One might have apprehended that a spirit thus quickly 
ripening into excellence should be early translated to 
a better than an earthly home ; still her health was 
strong, and gave promise of many years of growing 
usefulness. But in January, 1844, nearly four months 
after the departure of her mother, she was suddenly 
attacked by illness. From a letter dated January 26th, 
we find the spirit in which her father received this new 
trial of his faith : — 

u I am sorry to be obliged to write to you that poor 
Fanny is sick again. Early in the night before last she 
was taken with bilious colic, as we supposed, but the 
physician has pronounced her disease to be scarlet 
fever. To-day she has appeared very sick, and wander- 
ing at times ; but this may be the usual course of the 
6* 



66 



MEMOIR. 



complaint. In a former day. I should have felt very 
badly to have such a disease make its appearance in the 
family ; but I have learned better. I cannot be without 
anxiety for my dear Fanny and the other children, but I 
have no fears. I can leave all to Him who disposes these 
events, with perfect confidence in his love, and without 
a wish to alter his appointment, whatever it maybe," 

A few hours after he uttered these words of faith and 
submission, her father was called from his own sick-room 
to her dying bed. to receive her parting breath. Early 
on the morning of the 28th of January, her young spirit 
was released from the cares and sorrows of earth, and 
she was at rest for ever. 

Her father was himself severly ill at the moment 
when this blow descended upon him. In what manner 
he endured it, his own words must tell. It was on the 
next Sabbath but one after her death — the first one 
on which his state of health permitted him to resume Ins 
duties — that he thus addressed himself to the younger 
portion of his society. Like the discourse which has 
been already given, it was extemporaneous, and written 
after it was delivered. The reader will find in it the 
outpouring of the fulness of his heart, combined with 
his recollections of her from whom he was thus sepa- 
rated : — 

" My strength has been somewhat worn with sickness 
and sorrow, and I cannot tell how far it will allow me to 
go. I shall not, therefore, commence the usual service, 
which I might not be able to finish, and shall only say, 
in plain and familiar words, what is on my mind and in 
my heart. If I addressed myself to any, it would be to 
the young, — to those just passing from careless youth into 



MEMOIR. 



67 



the responsibilities of maturer years, — to those near the 
age of her who lately left us for the grave. If in what 
I say I shall make more than one allusion to her, I am 
sure you will indulge me hi it. The clays are heavy with 
me ; it would seem as if the memory of loved ones 
would soon be all that is left me, and such comfort as 
I can find in such sad recollections I am sure you will 
let me enjoy. 

u I would fain impress upon the young the wisdom, 
the happiness, the absolute necessity, of turning their 
hearts to God, and would recommend to them to make 
the sign of their sincere determination to be as much as 
possible like their Heavenly Master. You may think 
that you are not ready for this ; your feelings are not 
ripe for it. I ask not for your feelings ; let them take 
their own time. What I ask is the deep and solemn 
determination to follow your Master in all things as fast 
and as far as human frailty will allow. In other words, 
I ask you to be children of God, in thought, in action, 
and in life ; to treat him as a father ; to go boldly to the 
throne of grace, and throw open your hearts — all your 
hearts — before him ; tell him your wants, tell him your 
temptations, tell him your joys and sorrows, assured that 
he careth for you. Ask his blessing, ask his help and 
the influences of his presence, which he is always wait- 
ing to bestow. When your hearts are once sincerely 
and faithfully turned in that direction, you will find a joy 
in life which you have never dreamed of yet ; you will 
awake at once to a sense of the value and blessing of 
existence ; all your distaste, anxiety, and restless weari- 
ness will pass away ; you will feel and confess, for the 
first time, that you have found peace to your troubled 
souls. 



68 



MEMOIR. 



" You observe that I speak as if all this was within 
your own power. I believe that it is ; they who will 
may come to the waters. Our Saviour upbraided the 
thoughtless men of his day, because, having power, they 
would not come to him that they might have life. You 
can take the leafless plant from your cellar and set it in 
the sun ; the influences of heaven in the spring-time will 
soon cover it with foliage and with flowers. What 
you can do for the plant which you value, you can also 
do for your heart, your barren heart, which is now its 
own sepulchre, which has never pursued, nor acknowl- 
edged, nor even understood, the purpose for which God 
made it. I know this is not often done till God's hand 
has touched the heart. Is it not so with you ? What 
numbers have you seen in the last few years passing out 
from this house of God, — the aged and venerable, the 
manly and matronly and useful, the young and beautiful 
and tender, — moving in pale procession down to the 
bosom of the eternal world ! Has not another per- 
ished in the brightness of her rising, — at an hour whicli 
would seem untimely, if that word could apply to any 
act of Gocl ? She has been called to impress on you 
how soon you may hear the death-angers calm but un- 
relenting voice, — how suddenly you may be summoned, 
with your present thoughts upon your minds, and your 
present feelings and passions in your hearts. As you 
are you must go, perhaps without a moment's conscious 
warning, to render your account to God. Be not de- 
ceived by the representations of fancy. The coloring 
which sentiment and imagination throw around the death- 
bed is not true. Seen as it is, it is a stern reality. It 
is an awful thing to die. 



MEMOIR. 



69 



" My wish and prayer for you is, that you may have 
the feelings of children of God. — the affectionate rever- 
ence for him, the quick and living conscience, the warm- 
hearted sympathy with those around you, vrhich a sense 
of your filial relation to him will inspire. Never be 
misled by the miserable fiction, that without prayer and 
without a true love for others you can be the children of 
God ; for, depend upon it, it is not so. AYe live in a 
world of self-delusion ; it is fearful to think how many, 
living in hollow and lifeless forms, are persuaded that all 
is well with their souls, though they have not and do not 
try to have the principles and affections which make the 
Christian. 

" The mother of the dear child whom I have lost — 
her views of God and humanity were always hopeful and 
inspiring — said of her daughter, 6 The time will come 
when she will change, and when she does, the change 
will be true.' The time did come ; she was changed ; 
her heart opened to a sense of her relation to her 
Heavenly Father, acknowledging the various duties 
which grow out of it, with the sine er est desire and effort 
to do them. From that hour a lovely serenity and cheer- 
ful and earnest thoughtfulness spread themselves over her 
manner, and shone from her placid brow. I cannot tell 
you what delight it was to me to see the Bible in her 
hand, and the deep interest with which she used to read 
it, — to observe how peacefully her days went by. how 
sacredly the Sabbath was regarded ; for I saw that the 
prophesy was fulfilled, and the change was true. It was 
not that she was cold and unworthy before, but a new 
revelation had evidently dawned upon her spirit. She 
saw how great a thing existence is, and what wonders of 



70 



MEMOIR. 



glory and love there are in it to those who, instead of 
snatching the joys that float by them on the surface, 
look deeper for their happiness and find their treasures 
within. We are told by those who have passed the 
winter in the arctic circle, that, almost as soon as the 
spring returns, the snows are gone, the streams are flow- 
ing, the earth and the trees are green, the flowers pour 
incense from their little censers, and birds fill the woods 
with the wild rapture of their song. Such is the change 
in the heart when it passes from darkness to light, not 
by that mechanical process by which hearts are bent in 
one direction, like iron in its red-hot glow, soon to be- 
come cold and rigid as ever, but by a glad and voluntary 
surrender of its energies and affections to Him who 
gave them ; for all the powers within rise up in happy, 
harmonious, and powerful action, as soon as the warm 
sunshine of God's influence is permitted to reach the 
heart. 

" I would also, if I had power, impress upon the 
young how much may be done in a little time, if the 
heart is in it. ' How much we might do if we only 
would ! ' were the words of a dying man whose virtues 
I shall long remember. Why cannot the living feel 
this ? Why should it be left to start up in the hearts of 
the dying, when the time of action is nearly past ? It 
was said of him who was translated in the early age of 
the world, for the example of religious excellence which 
he gave, that, ' being made perfect in a short time, he 
fulfilled a long time.' And it is true that, under certain 
circumstances, one man may live more in a few days 
than another in threescore years and ten ; that is, he 
may do more to fulfil the purposes of existence, more 



MEMOIR. 



71 



to serve God and man, more to unfold the great spirit 
within him, than another who slumbers on to the late de- 
cline of age without asking what life is for, how much 
may be done in it, and what account must be rendered 
at last. 

" I feel that it was so with the child whom I have 
lost. The first eighteen years of her life were com- 
paratively a blank, the last few months were the well 
filled, the deeply written, the richly illuminated page. 
Although a stranger to domestic duties till the whole 
weight of them came at once upon her, she seemed to 
work out for herself in a few days the experience of 
years, manifesting an energy and discretion which in- 
spired in me the most perfect confidence, and which a 
lifetime is commonly required to teach. She took up 
the burden of those duties, which was far from being a 
light one, with a power and gracefulness which seemed 
incredible in one so young ; but in truth, c Honorable old 
age is not that which standeth in length of time, nor is 
measured by number of years ; but wisdom is the gray 
hair unto men, and an unspotted life is old age.' 

" There is divine philosophy in this. We know how 
soon the imagination, 6 yoked with whirlwinds and the 
northern blast, sweeps the long tract of day,' and 
the spiritual powers are equally rapid and resistless 
when called into efficient action ; in the greatness of 
their strength they travel over the field of duty, and, 
after a few short struggles and victories, possess and 
enjoy it all. The truth begins to be understood. It 
comes to us in the words of the modern lyrist, which 
always stir my heart like the sound of a silver trum- 
pet : — 



72 



MEMOIR. 



1 To all the sensual world proclaim, 
One glorious hour of crowded life 
Is worth an age without a name.' 

Let every heart take up that word, and rejoice to send 
it on ; perhaps it may reach the dull, cold ear of the 
sensual world at last. 0, this sleep of life ! how much 
deeper, heavier, how much more hopeless it is, than the 
sleep of death ! To that sleep there shall be a waking, — 
the morning is not far ; but to this sleep of life, the 
morning may never break, — the waking may never 
come. 

" While the heart that feels its relation to God will 
delight to come into near communion with him, there is 
another manifestation of the religious spirit in which 
there is less danger of delusion. I mean the sympathy 
with all, which our religion inspires. Not the sympathy 
with the few, nor with the many ; but with all, without 
exception, who bear the form of a man. 4 If ye love 
them which love you, what reward have ye? Do not 
even the publicans the same ? ' It must be something 
more self-denying, more free-hearted, than this, that shall 
resemble the spirit of your Master. 

" 0, could you but know how you wrong your own 
souls, what a death-wound you give to your own moral 
nature, when you treat any form or aspect of humanity 
with ridicule or disdain ! "When you laugh at the weak- 
nesses and follies of others, you are yourself the subject 
of profound compassion to those heavenly beings who 
look down with interest on our fallen race. 4 Have we 
not all one Father ? hath not one God created us ? ' 
For his sake, let us treat all others as brethren and sis- 
ters, having the same earnest desire to serve them, the 



MEMOIR. 



73 



same pain at seeing them unkindly treated, the same 
joy in their prosperity, the same sorrow for their sor- 
row, and most of all for their sin. Cherish in yourselves, 
with all your care, the spirit of your Master, — I do as- 
sure you, it requires all the care that you can give, — 
and remember that his Spirit can dwell only in a gentle, 
forbearing, loving, and patient heart. 

" Such, I may truly say, was the spirit of the child 
whom I have lost. I mean after her heart was opened, 
for it was colder and more reserved in former years. 
She felt that she had made a great mistake, that the 
regard of every human being was of great value, and 
she determined to go forth and seek the friendship of 
others by the only means that can secure it ; for it is 
always an answering feeling, freely given only to those 
who freely give. 

" Her heart warmed towards the friends of her moth- 
er, — and who were not the friends of her mother ? 
She longed for the season when she could go forth to 
become acquainted with the members of the society, 
to express to them her grateful sense of their unwearied 
kindness to me and mine. From her youth she could 
have no power over her brothers, but she established at 
once an influence within them, and they cheerfully sub- 
mitted themselves to the authority of love. 

" For myself, I was like the wanderer, who, when 
falling on the mountain-side, grasped a small plant for 
his support, and thus brought to light the rich mines of 
Peru. I was in constant wonder at the treasures of 
feeling which unfolded themselves in her love for me ; it 
was watchful, patient, self-denying, and tender. When 
we parted on the night before her sickness began, I 
7 



74 



MEMOIR. 



threw my arms round her, and felt that I had something 
to live for yet. In her delirious visions she was con- 
stantly speaking of me. I shall never forget how fond- 
ly she pressed her burning lips to mine ; and her last 
words to me, 6 0, my dear father ! ' breathed from 
depths of affection which no line had ever sounded in 
her young and fervent heart. It was God's blessing to 
me, — and till my own heart shall be cold in death I 
shall be grateful that I possessed, enjoyed, and know 
how to value this blessing of a daughter's love. 

" I think I am not misled by natural partiality when 
I say that she gave promise of usefulness had she 
lived, and in her early departure there is something of 
the mystery of death, — something more than can be 
read by the living eye. I know that early death is a 
blessing to those who are prepared to go ; it is a blessing 
to be taken early, while unworn with anxiety and sorrow, 
while the affections are unchilled by disappointment, and 
before the heart has become partially hardened, as the 
best hearts may, by the rough collisions of the troub- 
ling and the troubled world. It is hard to surrender 
those who are dear to us, but it is not hard to submit 
ourselves to the disposal of a God of love, It is in 
these afflictions that the foundations of our immortal life 
are laid ; the strait and narrow path is the nearest one 
to a heavenly home. Some of you have already be- 
come intimately acquainted with grief, — not heavier, 
perhaps, but yet harder to bear, than mine, — and those 
who have been exempt thus far cannot go through life 
without meeting with changes ; they are the universal 
doom, from which none may hope to be free. 4 In the 
world,' said Jesus Christ, 4 ye shall have tribulation : but 



MEMOIR. 



75 



be of good cheer ; I have overcome the world.' Re- 
member the strength and sympathy which he offers. 
Remember his promise, — i To him that overconieth, I 
will give the morning star.' 

8 The star of the unconquered will, 

He rises in my breast, 
Serene, and resolute, and still, 

And calm, and self-possessed. 
0, faint not in a world like this, 

And thou shalt know ere long, — 
Know how sublime a thing it is 

To suffer and be strong.' 

"It has been as I intimated that it would be. I 
have indulged my own feelings with too little regard to 
the claims and duties of the day. Still, I think that the 
sendee will not be lost, for if the words are uninstruc- 
tive, the act of God is full of meaning. i The righteous 
dead condemneth the ungodly that are living, and youth 
that is soon perfected, the many years and old age of 
the unrighteous.' Remember how few days since her 
hold on life seemed strong as yours, and now she has 
exchanged the happy mansions of the living for the 
lonely and frozen grave. Remember how soon you 
may follow in that path where there is no return, 
and, while you may, secure the preparation of the 
Gospel, — the only preparation that can avail you in 
the world to which you go. If you are but faithful 
to yourselves, to others, and to God, you will close 
your eyes in peace; sweet and mournful will be the 
memory you will leave behind you, and death will 
conduct you to happiness such as no living lips can 
tell. Here is a field of high and holy ambition. Live 



76 



MEMOIR. 



so that, if the next spring should not find you here, you 
may be rejoicing in nearer presence with God. So ful- 
fil the duties of your life, that, if you should thus pass 
away, you may, like her on whom the heavy gate of the 
tomb last closed, leave the epitaph written on a parent's 
bleeding heart, — 6 Many daughters have done virtuous- 
ly, but thou excellest them all.' " 

From a letter to a friend, written a week after his 
daughter's death, and before he had left his sick-cham- 
ber, we may see that, although feeble in body, and sad 
in spirit, he still could say from the heart, " Thy will be 
done." 

" Feb. 5, 1844. When I wrote you last, I told you 
that I was prepared for whatever might come ; but I 
did not know. So far as to be able to receive it with 
grateful and unbounded confidence, with unaltered love 
of my Heavenly Father, and without a wish that it 
might be otherwise, I was prepared. But not to feel 
wounded, stricken, and desolate, — for this I was not pre- 
pared. I was lifted above my former sorrow, but now 
' He hath brought me down to the dust of death.' .... 
Perhaps, as I gain my physical strength, which is now 
entirely subdued, I shall feel stronger in spirit. I shall 
commit myself to Him, and He will do with me as He 
thinks best. His will be done ! 

" How strange, that, when my dearest child had just 
begun to unfold the rich treasures of energy and affec- 
tion which had been so long folded up within her, when 
I had just begun to lean upon her, she should be with- 
drawn ! her character in its new beauty, power, and love- 
liness just shown to me, and then withdrawn for ever ! 
The night of her sickness, when she bade me good night 



MEMOIR. 



77 



with her usual kiss, I threw my arms round her, and 
held her to my heart. I felt that I had something to 
live for, — it seemed as if a new, bright field of life 
was opening upon me. Nothing could exceed her ten- 
der, disinterested affection for me. The last day of her 
life she was delirious, but talking all the while of me and 
what she must do for my comfort. When I saw her 
for the last time, she drew my lips down in close pres- 
sure to her own, saying, — 6 0, my dear father ! ' Such 
was the lovely opening of her new promise, and now 
the darkness that follows it is extreme. Will it ever 
pass away ? " 

The shadow of physical weakness and depression 
passed away, and as he regained his strength, his mind 
recovered its tone, and we find him writing as follows. 

To the same : — 

" Feb. 15, 1844. The few last months have obliged 
me to be constantly speaking of myself. So much so> 
that now I feel as if I were in danger of extreme selfish- 
ness ; and yet, as in my former sorrow, I am deter- 
mined to be perfectly natural in the expression of my 
feeling, — that is, not to suppress whatever I feel like 
saying, simply because it may seem like taxing the sym- 
pathy of friends and holding one's self up as an object of 
compassion. The great endeavour should be to get 
back as soon as possible to the healthy state of mind, 
for in that only can we feel our relation to our Father 
and perform the duties it requires. With me, the free 
expression of feeling is the most direct way to it. I 
trust I shall reach it soon. I am sometimes astonished at 
the manner in which I bear these things ; they seem 
horrible as they are coming. My flesh and heart fail at 
7* 



78 



MEMOIR. 



the sight ; but when they are come, though I am in the 
very shadow of death, and feel its chill at iny heart, I 
find myself sustained, — there is no heart-sinking, — I 
submit without a wish that it were otherwise ; for the 
Divine sympathy and presence seem so near me, that 
I almost doubt whether it is not delusion. But when I 
reflect upon it, I feel surer of this than of any thing else ; 
there are effects produced in myself which only this is 
sufficient to account for. I know that it must be so, and 
I throw myself back on this feeling with as much con- 
fidence as if I w r as leaning on the Rock of Ages 

— — will send you what I said last Sabbath by way of 
address to Fanny's companions. There was much in 
the sudden departure to arrest their attention, and, if I 
am not under a complete illusion, there was much in 
Fanny's later character to inspire them to efforts for the 
unfolding of their spirits, and the attainment of a higher 
and better life. I do not trust much to any thing that 
I can say ; — the green tree has never spoken to much 
purpose, and it cannot be expected of the dry. But in 
this case God has spoken, and I trust not in vain." 
To the same : — 

" Feb. 27, 1844. Your kind letter has just reached 
me, while writing. I am very grateful to you for the 
extract which you send me from Fanny's letter to her 
young friend. It expresses in words what we saw in 
living action, or rather expresses in part ; for in a let- 
ter she does not dwell, as she might have done else- 
where, on the source of those influences which were work- 
ing the change in her young heart. Still, I hope her 
young friends wdll reflect that every effect must have a 
cause sufficient to produce it. Death, and the impression 



MEMOIR. 



79 



which it makes, are not sufficient, as thousands of cases 
show. There was in her a quickened sense of obliga- 
tion, and, of course, a clearer discernment of the love 
and presence of Him to whom she was thus bound, — 
to whom the first fruits of her heart and life were due. 

" I am very much struck sometimes with the extent 
to which I am favored above others. They speak of 
their want of faith in what seems to me a clear daylight 
reality. They say, ' Increase our faith/ while it seems 
to me that nothing short of actual sight and presence 

could make any addition to mine Several have 

said to me that they would give any thing for stronger 
evidence of the unseen world, whereas faith is the evi- 
dence ; just in proportion as one believes, and lives ac- 
cordingly, is he conscious of an effect produced in his 
heart. An effect so universal and sure cannot come 
from visions and imaginations ; there must be a reality 
somewhere. We perceive it, as Columbus found he was 
nearing the Western Continent by the change in the 
winds and waters before it rose for the first time upon 
his view." 

To the same : — 

" March 13, 1844. In your letter you ask if Mr. 
P. may copy my address. I am sorry he should have 
had any hesitation about doing it at the time when he 
felt an interest in it. My whole desire was to have it 
circulated in manuscript form, because that was the 
least ostentatious way, and I am very glad when any one 
cares enough for it to be willing to make a copy. I 
hope it will be good for others that I have been afflicted, 
and it does seem to me as if the sudden unfolding of a 
fine spirit, just shining out and then withdrawn, might 



80 



MEMOIR. 



have some effect to touch the heart. It reminds me of 
the only time when I saw the full moon at Niagara. I 
was in the tower just over the fall, receiving a strong 
impression, though the sky was darkened with clouds. 
All at once the moon broke through them, gilding the 
whole prospect, and lighting up the rainbow from the 
English to the American fall. In a few minutes it was 
all dark again, and so remained while I was there ; but 
the memory, and, what is more, the effect of that mo- 
ment's revelation, will go with me to my latest day." 

From this time, Dr. Peabody devoted himself with 
increased energy to his religious duties. His own ex- 
perience had taught him how to speak to the hearts of 
his people with more depth and power than before ; and 
those who heard him will bear witness that he appealed 
to them with a spirituality and fervor which made a deep 
and abiding impression. His health continued to be 
feeble, and a severe shock was given to his constitution 
by the afflictions he had undergone ; and he was him- 
self persuaded that the shadows of night were soon to 
fall, and that what he was to do must be done quickly. 

The words which he used in speaking to his people 
of a departed brother,* to whom he paid an eloquent 
tribute on the Sabbath succeeding his death, f touching- 
ly describe his own condition at this period of his min- 
istry : — " We see those, like our departed friend, 
who live for years in constant suffering, with forms 
bowed down by infirmity, and yet keep their minds in 
constant, efficient, useful activity, not considering them- 
selves released by reason of helplessness from any of 



* Henry Ware, Jr. 



t September 23, 1843. 



MEMOIR. 



81 



their obligations to God or roan. On the contrary, their 
energy seems quickened by that which would seem most 
to oppress it. They devote themselves with more ear- 
nestness to their duties because the time is short and 
the service which they render must be rendered soon ; 
they will not withdraw the fainting hand till it is utterly 
helpless ; they are determined to give the last remnants, 
as well as the fulness, of their strength to the labor 
which they love. Such examples strengthen our con- 
fidence in the future state, if this be possible, for they 
show that such persons are able to look over and beyond 
it ; they live as those who know that they shall live for 
ever ; they have seized the truth of their condition ; 
they understand that death is the beginning, not the end : 
they keep their powers in constant action here, that they 
may be prepared to enter at once upon the higher duties 
which await them in the immortal state to which they go." 

It has already been seen that the relation in which he 
stood to his people was very intimate and near : he felt 
that in the presence of such friends he could speak with 
the openness and freedom of familiar intercourse ; and 
he did speak to them with an earnestness and effect far 
exceeding those of his earlier years. He seemed at 
every moment standing on the confines of the eternal 
world, as one ready to be offered ; permitted just be- 
for entering its gate to point out to those he loved, with 
the failing accents of a dying voice, the way to reach its 
blessedness. He was always gentle ; but now his soul 
seemed to glow with Christian love. He was always 
humble ; but now he wore the aspect of one who never 
for a moment lost the consciousness that he was in the 
view of an all-seeing eye, and the great purpose of his 
being was the only one that occupied his thoughts. 



82 



MEMOIR. 



It was proposed to him, by members of his society, 
that he should suspend his labors for a season, in order 
to visit Europe, and endeavour to establish his health by 
rest and change of scene ; and they liberally offered to 
provide him with the means of making such a tour ; but 
he felt that any prolonged absence might be unfavor- 
able to the comfort or welfare of his children, and that 
he could find no happiness elsewhere such as was af- 
forded by his home. 

It is now apparent that he was at this time drawing 
rapidly near the grave : but debility had accompanied 
him so long, that his friends saw no cause for serious 
alarm, and believed that an effectual remedy might be 
found in the suspension of some of his labors, which 
were wearing on his exhausted frame. But his appear- 
ance and manner gave the impression to strangers, that 
the period of his labors was not far distant. In July, 
1846, he delivered a discourse before the Alumni of the 
Divinity School at Cambridge. Many of those who 
heard him upon that occasion well remember that he 
seemed to them to be speaking as a dying man, and that 
his voice sounded like that of one who is on the border 
of the grave. 

Here the pen fell from the hands of the only one to 
whom the friends of his brother were wilhng to confide 
the task of preparing this Memoir. While engaged in 
writing it, he said to a friend that he felt as if he were 
carving the letters on his own gravestone. His voice is 
now still. There is a touching eloquence in his silence 
which it seems almost sacrilege to break. Yet we must 
follow our suffering friend through the last faltering steps 



MEMOIR. 



83 



of his journey : we would also seek to pay our tribute 
of affectionate reverence to the memory of that brother 
who has left none behind him to do justice to his rare 
genius and excellence. 

Resuming the narrative where we find it is abruptly 
broken off. we follow Dr. Peaboclv through six months 
of debility, until we reach the closing scene. Early in 
October, 1846, he was attacked with illness, which, 
though of short duration, was followed by extreme ex- 
haustion. Writing to a friend, he says of himself: — 

" My usual way of keeping some subject of active 
thought before me was out of the question in so weak 
a state. My mind seems like a leaden weight, or what 
the boys in fishing call a sinker " At this period, how- 
ever, he showed that his mind was still awake to the 
beautiful harmonies of nature. He addressed the fol- 
lowing lines to a little girl of nine years old, whose un- 
common susceptibility to natural beauty had attracted 
his sympathy and attention. They are interesting, as 
being the last fines of poetry which he ever wrote, and 
as showing the peculiar grace and facility with which he 
always directed the young to find in nature the wise 
and tender teachings of a Father's love. 

' ; Louisa ! did you never trace 
The smile on nature's glorious face, 
That seems to breathe from every part 
The deep expression of a heart ? 
I know you have ; — in every flower 
You feel a presence and a power; 
To you the blue and silent sky 
Has meaning, like an earnest eye ; 
And all the warm and living glow, 
Where foliage heaves and waters flow, 
Inspires in every changing tone 
Some feelings answering to your own. 



84 



MEMOIR, 



" But tell roe whence that smile can be. 
The earth says, — ' It is not in me ' ; 
' 'T is not in me,' the deep replies ; 
The same voice answers from the skies. 
The smile divine that nature wears 
Comes from some higher source than theirs ; 
For such expression never springs 
From lifeless and unmeaning things ; 
They have no influence to impart, 
They have no power to touch the heart, 
And all the brightness round them thrown 
Is beautiful, but not their own. 

" Then there must be a living soul 
That quickens and informs the whole. 
There is : in nature ever shine 
The kindlings of that soul Divine. 
And thus the rich and dreamy haze, 
That sweetly veils the autumn days, 
The scarlet leaves that, glancing round, 
With rainbow fragments strew the ground, 
The clear transparency of noon, 
The bright and thoughtful harvest-moon, 
And all around us and above, 
Reflect a Fathers smile of love. 

" I know that your young heart discerns 
What man's hard spirit coldly learns, — 
The truth which throws the brilliant ray 
Of joy upon the earthly way; 
You have a Father, — kind and true, 
And full of sympathy for you ; 
And, though with warm affection blest, 
Remember that He loves you best ; 
O, turn, then, to that Friend above, 
Resolve to answer love with love, 
And ever act the filial part, 
With faithful and confiding heart." 
October, 1846. 



After an absence of two or three Sundays from his 



MEMOIR. 



85 



pulpit, he returned to it while yet too feeble to stand. 
He was deeply impressed with the conviction, that he 
should not long be permitted to labor, and he wrought 

while it was yet day." He did not, however, so dis- 
tinctly apprehend danger to his life, as the necessity of 
abandoning his profession, owing to the extreme diffi- 
culty of speaking in public, occasioned by a failure of 
his voice. This increased upon him during the winter, 
and gave him great uneasiness as to the result. So far, 
however, from allowing his general state of debility to 
interrupt his course of duty and exertion, he never, per- 
haps, during any period of his life, accomplished so 
much intellectual labor. He furnished more than his 
usual amount of writing for the Xorth American Review ; 
was never absent from his pulpit on the Sabbath, and, in 
addition to his accustomed labors on that day, he took a 
class in the Sunday School, of which he writes to a 
friend as follows : — 

"I wish I had some notes on the Scripture to fur- 
nish you with ; though, perhaps, if you take my course, 
you will find them less necessary. I have taken a class 
of young ladies to teach on Sunday, and consider the 
Scriptures simply as intended to throw fight on human 
nature, duties, and relations. So that my first question 
is, — i What can I learn from this passage which it will 
do me good to know ? ' One is surprised to find how 
many valuable truths are thus suggested. For instance, 
in the history of the Fall : I would show from it that a 
state of prosperity is not one of content, — which God 
knew, but it was necessary for man to know it ; that 
no virtue can be of any worth, except it be formed, — 
that is, it must be character ; that happiness and excel- 
8 



86 



MEMOIR. 



lence can never be gifts, but must be results ; that the 
earth was cursed for man's sake, that is, his benefit; 
that death, too, is a blessing to all who do not make it 
otherwise, — a blessing to the surviving in its influences. 

" Truths of this kind will start out before you, and 
with your power of language and your experience of 
life you will produce a greater effect than in the old ex- 
plaining way. In fact, it is only thus regarded that the 
Bible has a deep and abiding interest, and I am grati- 
fied to see that my class evidently feel the interest which 
I wish to inspire. Teaching them on the Sabbath is 
the only thing in the shape of enjoyment which I am con- 
scious of looking forward to ; it carries me back to the 
days of anticipation which I passed out from long ago." 

This tone of sadness and discouragement may be 
directly traced, at this time, to the state of physical ex- 
haustion in which he found himself. And yet it must be 
admitted, that, under circumstances the most favorable for 
enjoyment, he often was inclined to despondency. He 
reproached himself at times for not " having a stronger 
relish for life " ; but he attributed it to his physical con- 
stitution, which often seemed to act like a " weight and a 
chain " upon his mind. This natural want of elasticity 
of spirits made the trials, which came upon him so heavily 
during the latter portion of his life, much harder to en- 
dure than they would have been to a person of a more 
cheerful spirit and a lighter heart. 

In the month of April he was again visited with a 
severe cough, which affected his appearance so much 
that his people became anxious and alarmed, and sought 
to devise some mode of relief to which he might be in- 
duced to accede. At a parish meeting held on the 



MEMOIR. 



87 



11th of May, it was unanimously voted, that a committee 
be appointed to confer with Dr. Peabody upon the ex- 
pediency of discontinuing his labors for a time, or to 
make some arrangements by which he may be partially 
relieved from the active duties of his office. It was 
also voted, that, if he would take a recess, the society 
would supply the pulpit and defray all his expenses 
during his absence. This expression on the part of the 
people was communicated to Dr. Peabody in the fol- 
lowing letter : — 

Springfield, May 12, 1847. 
" Dear Sir, — Inclosed I send you the votes of our 
society at their meeting of yesterday. Knowing the 
anxiety of all our friends upon this subject, and in the 
hope that a release from all your duties to us, and your 
domestic cares, may result in great benefit to your 
health, if not to its restoration, we most cordially and 
earnestly invite you to try the effect of a voyage to 
Europe, and for this purpose will make immediate ar- 
rangements, as provided in the second vote. 
" Most truly and devotedly yours, 

" John Howard. 

" In behalf of the Committee." 

To this communication, Dr. Peabody made the follow- 
ing reply : — 

Springfield, May 15, 1847. 
" My dear Sir, — Nothing could have been more 
unexpected than the very generous offer which you have 
so kindly and considerately communicated, and to which, 
without reflection, I should be wholly at a loss for a 
reply. I certainly do not need, and therefore could 



88 



MEMOIR. 



not think of receiving, any thing like the indulgence 
proposed ; but since the offer is so liberally made, I 
may say that my life is too monotonous and unexhilarat- 
ing to be good for health or efficient action of the mind ; 
and if I could make arrangements for occasional jour- 
neys, in the course of which I might supply my pulpit 
by exchange, it would be a great relief to me in the 
approaching season, not to speak of those whose destiny 
it is to hear me. I could not possibly leave my family 
for any long tour without a degree of anxiety which 
would make travelling of no advantage, and I do not 
see any way, except something resembling that which I 
suggest, in which the kind purpose of my friends can 
be answered. 

" I shall be very happy to see you and the other 
gentlemen at any time most convenient to you. I shall 
be at home this, and to-morrow, and Monday evening. 
Perhaps Sunday evening would be most convenient to 
you, and it is not likely that any calls on me would 
occur to interrupt us. 

" Your friend and servant, 

" Vvm. B, 0. Peabody. 

" John Howard, Esq." 

This expression of sympathy and consideration on 
the part of his people was exceedingly welcome, as an 
evidence of their affection and interest. It gave an ex- 
hilaration to his spirits, and induced him to propose to 
himself a visit to Boston during the week of Anniver- 
saries, which was immediately to succeed the week 
upon which he had entered. He made an arrangement 
to exchange with the Rev. Mr. Thompson of Salem, on 



MEM OIK. 



^9 



the Sabbath succeeding the Anniversaries, and felt that 
the proposal for his relief, of which he had agreed to 
avail himself to a certain extent, would make a most 
welcome change in his spirits and in his health. 

On Sunday. May 16th, he preached to his people for 
the last time. His last sermon was from the text, 
" To be spiritually minded is life and peace." And 
the hymn with which he closed his last service in the 
church was, — 

" Rise, my souL and stretch thy vrings, 
Thy better portion trace ; 
Rise from transitory things 

Towards heaven, thy dwelling-place.'' 

Throughout the day it was observed that he spoke 
with peculiar earnestness, and with less appearance of 
exhaustion than he had exhibited for many weeks. On 
Tuesday he was engaged for some hours in the morn- 
ing, superintending the setting out of trees in the ceme- 
tery, and in the afternoon he walked to a distant part 
of the town, to visit one who was in sickness and pov- 
erty. Some one not belonging to his parish, on seeing 
him pass, remarked, " There goes Dr. Peabody on an 
errand of mercy. He looks too feeble to stand, but 
while he lives he will be found in the steps of his Master, 
going about and doing good." On Wednesday, although 
far from well, he remained nearly all clay at his desk, 
endeavouring to finish an article which was promised for 
the next number of the North American Review. He 
hardly left his desk through the day, and at night, com- 
plaining of chilliness and exhaustion, he went early to 
bed. The next morning he attempted to rise, but find- 
ing that he could not support himself, he went back to 
8* 



90 



MEMOIR. 



his bed, from which he never rose again. He dictated 
to his son the closing pages of the review which he was 
so anxious to complete, but seemed unequal afterwards 
to any mental or physical exertion. He appeared to be 
entirely prostrated, and would repeatedly say, I tvant 
rest. On one occasion he asked to be left alone, saying. 
4i I want to be still, — still as death." 

Yet he would occasionally be roused by a visit or a 
message from a friend ; and to one sitting by him, who 
asked if the perfume of cologne-water was still agreeable 
to him, as it had usually been, he replied with energy, 
" Give me the smell of an open field, — it speaks of 
the goodness and love of God." And again, when a 
flower was handed to him, he exclaimed, " Beautiful ! 
beautiful ! but not more so than many things which show 
God's love for us." It was, however, very seldom 
that he uttered distinctly any continued expression of 
thought. At times his mind was evidently wandering, 
and he constantly shrank from any attempt to speak 
which could be avoided. Those who were near him 
felt, however, from the expression of his countenance, 
and from some other indications, that he was not un- 
aware of the change that was approaching. On the 
Tuesday evening before his death, just as the " western 
evening light " was kindling the landscape after an after- 
noon shower, his physician drew aside the curtain, and 
asked him if he should not raise him up to look out 
upon the beautiful view from his window. After open- 
ing the curtain, he returned to his side, and found him 
completely overpowered by his emotion, and in tears. 
He said, " I am wrong, — it is too much for you." 
Dr. Peabody motioned to him that he would like to 



MEMOIR. 



91 



have him wait awhile, and then said, — " I was think- 
ing of a death upon this bed such as never was before, 
and never will be again, when the dying one asked that 
she might be raised up to look out once more upon that 
view." 

Throughout the week he seemed constantly sinking, 
and on Friday, May 28th, he lost the power of speech, 
and seemed almost unconscious at times of what was 
going on around him. At six o'clock in the evening, his 
friend, the Rev. Dr. Osgood, came to his bedside, as 
he said, " to look upon his face once more." He ex- 
pressed, in tender and affectionate words, his sympathy 
and prayers for him, Dr. Peabody evidently heard 
him, and endeavoured to articulate his thanks. This 
was the last conscious recognition, on his part, of any 
one about him. He continued to breathe with difficulty 
until near midnight, when he fell asleep, gently as an 
infant, and, 

" Life's long warfare closed at last, 
His soul was found in peace." 

The morning after his spirit departed, as those were 
standing near him to whom in the Sunday School he 
had spoken, the last time he met them there, of the true 
life, they were most touchingly reminded of his last 
words. " Why should we," said he, " speak of the de- 
parted as dead ; it is a cold, hard word ; when I am 
gone, I hope no one will say, ' He is dead.' " 

On Saturday, May 29th, a parish meeting was called 
to make arrangements for the funeral services. It was 
fully attended by the male and female members of the 
society, and utterance was given to the most touching 
and spontaneous expressions of affection and grief. At 



92 



MEMOIR. 



the funeral, on the following Tuesday, the church was 
thronged with mourners from all the societies in town. 
Dr. Gannett of Boston delivered a very appropriate 
discourse, in which he unfolded the inspiring doctrine 
of the " identity of the spiritual life on earth with the 
future life in heaven," showing, in view of this doctrine, 
what is the true life, and in what sense we should regard 
that which is commonly called death. By a peculiarly 
natural and happy transition, he then passed to the mem- 
ory of him in whom " was seen a most impressive ex- 
ample of the true life" The remains of the beloved 
and revered pastor were followed to the cemetery, where 
they were laid in the spot marked out by himself, a short 
time before his death. That beautiful hymn of Watts, 
" There is a land of pure delight," was sung around the 
open grave ; after which, the throng of mourners slowly 
and sadly departed, leaving him in the spot he so dearly 
loved. 

No place on earth is more associated with his pres- 
ence than this. He was deeply interested in first pro- 
jecting the cemetery. He gave his time and personal 
attention in the laying out of the grounds. He marked 
out the paths, named them, and, even with his own 
hand, printed the letters which now point them out to 
the visitor. His voice was heard here as he performed 
the service of consecration. Here he passed, at some 
seasons, many hours of every day, either superintending 
and assisting in the labor of arranging the grounds, or 
walking through the paths in silent preparation of his 
Sabbath services. Here, too, those dearest to him had 
already been laid. And when w r e turned away, it 
seemed not like leaving him in a strange place, but 



MEMOIR. 



93 



within the familiar sound of falling waters, and among 
the familiar trees, whose green and protecting shadows 
bent as if in love and care over his grave. Many will 
be led to this spot by their reverence for him. In his 
own words, " at every season, whether in the tender 
green of spring, the bright radiance of summer, or the 
pensive and rainbow-colored autumn, it is a place where 
thoughtfulness can indulge in its meditation and affection 
give way to its tears, secure that nothing shall be there 
to disturb its quiet repose ; for the genius of the place 
has power, and few indeed there are so lost in hardness 
and folly, that they are not softened to at least a tran- 
sient solemnity when standing on that holy ground." 

And here the ministry of this faithful servant of God 
seems ended. We can no longer listen to his teachings 
of wisdom and of love, and nothing remains to us of 
his pure and beneficent life but the precious memory of 
his example and the blessed hope of reunion with him 
in heaven. Yet we cannot feel that his memory and ex- 
ample are to pass away. There was an influence that 
went out from his life and character which cannot be 
lightly estimated, and we would seek to perpetuate it, if 
we can do so, by dwelling upon some traits which seem 
to us most remarkable. 

Perhaps the most striking thing about Dr. Peabody ? s 
mind was the combination of qualities which are often 
supposed to be inconsistent with each other ; — his 
sound, practical good sense, and his exquisite taste for 
the beautiful ; his imaginative powers, and his faithful 
attention to the details both of life and knowledge ; his 
" poet's eye," and his calm and profound analysis of all 



94 



MEMOIR. 



objects of thought and sight; his lively fancy, and the 
accurate precision of his mental habits and his state- 
ments of fact. It was this which gave him his strong 
hold upon the confidence of clear-headed and sensible 
men. They saw that there must be a foundation for 
what he said with regard to spiritual things, because, in 
matters which came within the sphere of their own ob- 
servation, they could always trust his judgment and his 
practical knowledge. Then, too, how wonderful his 
keen perception of all the individual peculiarities of 
character, and his native talent for satire, combined with 
such exquisite discretion, not only in speech, but in 
thought, and such an ever wakeful tenderness for the 
feelings and claims of others ! He had the broadest and 
most all-embracing charity, and this led you at times to 
feel as if the defects of those around him were hidden 
from him, when, in reality, no one could be more sen- 
sitive to every form of evil and every breath of folly or 
of sin. 

He always contended that sincerity and Christian 
courtesy need not to separated. " I have no more 
right," said he, " to volunteer an opinion of my own 
which I know will wound the feelings of my companion, 
than I have to take advantage of my neighbourhood to 
stick a pin into him. We may always bear our testi- 
mony to the truth, and leave those who desire to know 7 
our sentiments in no doubt as to what they are, and 
when our counsel or advice is sought, may give it in the 
fullest plainness of Christian sincerity. But 6 speaking 
one's mind,' as it is called, is too often a selfish indul- 
gence of personal feeling, and we cannot too carefully 
watch the motives which impel us to it." 



MEMOIR, 



95 



Any sketch of the character of his mind would be 
felt to be imperfect, which left out of view that vein of 
delicate and irresistible humor which added a never 
failing charm to his conversation, and often found its 
way into his graver writings. This talent, which is too 
often a snare to its possessor, betraying him into a dis- 
regard of the feelings of others, or leading him at times 
to view in a ludicrous light subjects which should be 
always sacred, was never used by him excepting to add 
a zest to the intercourse of familiar friendship, or to give 
interest to those curious details of knowledge, which, 
when recommended by the charm of his inexhaustible 
wit, were welcomed with delight by every one. Not 
only did he guard with anxious tenderness all those mis- 
fortunes and follies which are too often a mark for ridi- 
cule, but never in his most playful moods did he let fall 
a remark which might give an association of levity to a 
subject in itself elevated or sacred. You could never 
remember any thing which seemed inharmonious with 
his highest moments. His genial and sportive humor 
seemed as much in sympathy with all things generous 
and kind, as the glancing sunbeam which sends a smile 
over nature's face, and kindles all objects with its cheer- 
ful light. Those who remember him best will need but 
this hint to recall the brilliancy of his wit, — the unfail- 
ing resources of his imagination, — which made him in 
conversation the most fascinating, as well as instructive, 
companion. 

Dr. Peabody took a very deep interest in the public 
affairs of the clay ; but he always seemed to regard them 
as a part of the continued history of the world, and as 
such worthy of attention and interest. He therefore 



96 



MEMOIR. 



did not identify his opinions with his passions and preju- 
dices, and was not unfitted by the influence of any per- 
sonal considerations to be an expounder of the highest 
principles. We might best describe his position in rela- 
tion to public interests, by again quoting from his tribute 
to the memory of the sainted Henry "Ware the following 
passage : — %; With respect to the great moral questions 
of the day. in all of which he was deeply interested, he 
was equally true to his conscience, equally independent 
of numbers and of party. He had that moderation 
which the Apostle recommends, — a trait of character not 
estimated, because not understood ; because few men 
know how difficult it is to maintain, when parties are 
thundering in the ear their ' Lo here ! ' and ; Lo there ! ' 
When one set of men are complaining of your indiffer- 
ence, and another of your violence, it is only a clear mind 
which can trace out its moral path before it ; only a 
strong heart which walks straight on in it, unmoved by 
reproach from either side." 

The universality* as well as the accuracy, of his 
knowledge, was amazing. Whether you sought informa- 
tion of him on any point of history or science, — whether 
you would ask about the stars or the flowers, the birds 
or the insects, — his prompt and full replies gave you 
an impression that this was a subject of special interest 
to him. He was never hurried. He rarely pleaded 
as an excuse for the neglect of any thing that he "had 
so much to do" : and never, in the most engrossing 
preparations for any service, denied himself to one of 
his parish who wished to see him. He hardly seemed 
conscious how much labor he performed, because he 
never stopped to rest. His habits of early rising gave 



MEMOIR. 



97 



him a great many hours in the day. He never remained 
in bed, during the last ten years of his life, after half past 
four in summer, and the hours which he gave to labor 
in his garden were also filled with preparations for his 
Sabbath services. He could return from these fatiguing 
exertions out of doors, and, going into his study, could 
transcribe, as he expressed it, from his mind what he had 
been arranging while his hands were busy. His habits 
with regard to the preparation of his discourses may 
best be described by quoting from the " Familiar Ad- 
dress,*' from which large extracts were introduced into 
the earlier pages of this Memoir. 

<; I do not believe any thing worth hearing or reading 
can be produced without labor : and the labor of writing 
wears upon the nerves and exhausts the spirit more, 
perhaps, than any other. Let any man sit down to pre- 
pare an address for some public occasion, and he will 
have an idea of this labor. Doubtless it becomes easier 
by habit, but the effect of routine and the perpetual 
recurrence of the demand once, if not twice, in every 
week, creates a difficulty on the other side. My own 
habit has been, never to sit down to consider what I shall 
write, as many do. I find that my mind, such as it is, 
acts most freely away from the study and in the pres- 
ence of nature. I therefore construct in my own 
mind an exact image of every thing which I intend to 
write, and this, when completed, can either be spoken 
or written, as the case requires. My sermons are thus 
written in my mind during my walks in the fields, the 
cemetery, or the garden, and, when matured, are com- 
mitted to paper in very little time. This has given the 
impression that I write easily and rapidly, when in truth 
9 



98 



MEMOIR. 



I have no advantage in this respect, except, perhaps, that 
of a better system, which, after the experience of years, 
I would recommend to every writer, whatever his pro- 
fession may be." 

Dr. Peabody once said of himself, to a person who 
was expressing surprise at the amount of writing which 
he performed in a short time, that he could strike off 
work more rapidly than many others, because the engine 
was kept so constantly in motion that it never got cold. 
He was always intensely occupied with some subject of 
thought. During the long winter evenings he could 
never use his eyes, and in the winter of 1843-4, in 
answer to a friend who asked him how he contrived to 
occupy them, he said that he was so much afraid of 
reverie, in the enfeebled state of his mind and spirits, that 
he made it a rule to keep some subject of active thought 
constantly before him ; and in order to make sure that 
he did not deceive himself in the matter, he was always 
composing. He had so trained his mind, that he could 
leave off in the middle of a sentence if he were inter- 
rupted by a visitor, and resume his labors, without losing 
a word, the moment the door was shut. It was in this 
way that he wrote his lecture on the Anglo-Saxon Race, 
which he delivered in Salem in November, 1843, and 
the Life of Oglethorpe, written in the December follow- 
ing, besides the weekly sermons and lectures of that 
winter ; and the habit which he formed at that time he 
continued during the remainder of his life. 

What wonder that he sunk under such an unnatural 
amount of mental and physical exertion ? In his diary 
we find the following record, November 19th, 1843 : — 
" To-day I preached two sermons which I wrote in 



MEMOIR. 



99 



Salem, — written in the heavy hours of night, and com- 
mitted to paper in the morning. So the time is not 
wholly lost, and if it does not wear too far upon my 
strength, I shall not much care. It gives quiet and un- 
broken leisure to hold communion with God, and to 
cherish that nearness to him which must hereafter be 
the dearest treasure of my soul." 

One of the most touching things, in connection with 
the effect of his sorrow, was to see how carefully he 
guarded himself against that weak indulgence of it which 
would unfit him for the active and pressing duties of 
life. He only asked, with more searching scrutiny, 
" What remains for me to do ? " He therefore not 
only gave himself, as we have seen, with unremitted de- 
votion, to his intellectual and professional labors, but he 
immediately took hold of the details of life and domestic 
care, from which he had always been spared, and found 
relief in the faithful and thorough performance of those 
duties which were least congenial to his tastes and pre- 
vious habits, seeming to embrace almost with eagerness 
every form of self-denial and painful effort. From the 
period of their mother's death, he devoted himself to his 
children. In a letter written during the last winter of 
his life, he says : — " I now keep school for the children 
every evening. Besides aiding the younger ones, I am 
also desirous to keep F. connected with some intellectual 
and improving pursuits, which would not be easy, con- 
fined as he is in the bank all day, without a strong mani- 
festation of interest on my part. We are not liable to 
much interruption, and though, after writing so much in 
the day, it is not just the recreation that I should select, 
still there is always more satisfaction in doing than in 
neglecting one's duty." 



100 



MEMOIR. 



In the course of the same winter, one of his youngest 
boys left him to pass a few months away from home. 
At parting, he gave him the following directions, with the 
request that he would read them daily : — 

" 1. Never forget that you have a Heavenly Father, 
Speak to him every day. It is ungrateful to neglect 
him, and if you do, you will repent it bitterly for ever. 

" 2. Remember your friends at home, and how anx- 
ious they are for your welfare and improvement. If you 
will not take the trouble to write to them, they can have 
no confidence in your affections. 

u 3. Be affectionate and faithful to the friends around 
you. Give up your own inclinations when they inter- 
fere with theirs. 

" 4. Govern your passions firmly. You can be their 
master ; do not be their slave. 

"5. Always attend to duties first, and afterwards to 
pleasures. Finish with your studies before you allow 
your amusements to begin. 

" 6. Do not read much fiction. It is to the mind 
like drinking to the body : it intoxicates and destroys 
the power of the mind for any strong and useful exer- 
tion. 

"7. Ask of every thing which you are disposed or 
tempted to do, Is this right? If it is, do it, however 
much it costs you ; if it is not, let nothing induce you to 
do it. Every time you obey your conscience, you in- 
crease its power within you. Each time you act against 
it, you do something to destroy its power. 

"8. Never forget that you are on the way to a world 
where you must answer for every thing that you have 
done. Live so that you may give in your account with 
joy, and not with dread." 



MEMOIR. 



101 



He was always anxious ro make them realize what 
are the true objects of life, and to lead them to the high- 
est aims in the formation of character. A series of 
minute directions to this effect was written down by him 
for the use of one of his older children, but a few weeks 
before his death, beginning thus : — ■ <; Character is the 
familiar and commanding use of the power to pursue 
the ridit without submission to circumstances and incli- 
nations. When the power does not exist, or is not used, 
the living thing can never be a man" 

In further illustration of the views which he held, and 
which he always aimed to give his children, of the pur- 
pose of existence, we copy the following extract from 
a letter addressed to one of his sons, dated June 27th, 
1846 : — 

; - I am glad to see that you begin to be interested in 
the great problems of existence. They have in all ages 
taxed the energies of active minds, and such minds have 
been as unable as you to see why this world should 
have been made as it is, and why God pronounced it 
good. The mystery never was explained till Christian- 
ity taught us the supreme importance and value of char- 
acter, — showing that the formation of character in prep- 
aration for more advanced existence is the chief consid- 
eration, and comfort and happiness, which generally stand 
foremost to our minds, are only incidental things. Tins 
clears all up. We see that the world, with its difficul- 
ties and trials, is precisely what is wanted for the pur- 
pose. The same purpose evidently could not be an- 
swered without such discipline and training as we en- 
counter here, and we see that a Heavenly Father, who 
consults not our wishes, but our welfare, has subjected 
9* 



102 



MEMOIR. 



us to this process of education, for such it is. Children 
in schools are constantly asking, ' What good will these 
studies, and this whole machinery of education, do ? ' 
Those who are a little ahead of them can see the benefit 
of these things, while they cannot. And so those who 
make character the great aim and effort of life will dis- 
cern the fitness of this world and its changes. They ad- 
mire the wisdom of its arrangements and adaptations, 
and they gratefully pronounce it good." 

We should certainly omit a most remarkable feature 
of his mind and habits, if we did not speak of his un- 
wearied study of the Bible, He gave the strongest im- 
pression of what might be gained, not only in practical 
excellence, but in intellectual power, by a devoted study 
of its spirit and its letter. We hear those who were 
privileged to listen to his luminous expositions of Scrip- 
ture speak of the wonderful and living way in which it 
all seemed to lie open before him. It is still more in- 
structive to see how it was the bread of life to him, and 
how it became his intellectual as well as his spiritual 
food. His taste led him strongly in early life to works 
of imagination, and few persons had his degree of fa- 
miliarity with the best works of fiction and with every 
branch of general literature. His wonderfully retentive 
and accurate memory made these stores available in the 
latter portion of his life, when, in writing upon general 
subjects, as he was called to do in the exercise of his 
functions as a reviewer, his endless variety of illustra- 
tion, and his stores of poetic quotations, gave great ani- 
mation and interest to every subject which he touched. 
At this period, however, he frequently spoke of his en- 
tire want of interest in all works of fiction, and in writ- 



MEMOIR. 



103 



ing to a friend, he says : — 64 is deep in Eugene 

Sue's literature, — an individual of whom I shall never 
ask whence he came, or whither he is going ; only too 
grateful that I am not condemned to read him in penance 
for the sins of other days." He sometimes attempted 
to read those works of fiction which have delighted the 
reading world during the last few years, but repeatedly 
said, " I have completely lost my taste for such reading," 
and then would speak of the untiring freshness which he 
always found in the Scriptures. The word of God was 
always new and always suggestive ; and he was unwearied 
in his efforts to induce those in whom he was interested 
to find there all that he found. 

He was often urged, by those who had listened to his 
extemporaneous expositions of Scripture, to prepare a 
commentary upon the Bible, which should fill a place 
not yet occupied by any. This would have been to 
him the most delightful of all occupations, and he always 
looked forward to it in the hope that at some future 
time he should secure the leisure to prepare it and the 
means to publish it. During the last year of his life, 
measures were taken to secure these to him, and, had he 
lived, w^e should have seen the work accomplished. 

"As a theologian, Dr. Peabody cared not to place 
himself among the champions of any class of religious 
opinions. Decided in his own belief, frank in its avowal, 
and 4 ready always to give an answer to every one that 
asked him a reason of the hope that was in him,' he had 
none of the temper of the dogmatist or the sectarian. 

The amenity of disposition and the personal 

humility which sealed his lips against all censorious 
or injurious remark, disposed him to avoid the asperities 



104 



MEMOIR. 



of theological warfare. Hence, during his whole resi- 
dence in this town, he was a peacemaker, regarded with 
scarcely less esteem and treated with not less confidence 
beyond than within the limits of his own congregation. 
His exhortation was that of one who neither loved strife, 
nor felt any superiority over those who differed from him. 
6 Cherish,' said he, 4 with all your care, the Spirit of your 
Master, and remember that his Spirit can dwell only in a 
gentle, forbearing, patient, and loving heart.' Such a 
heart he carried in his own breast, and if we desire 
proof that it was understood in this community, we need 
only look on this concourse of mourners, and observe 
how entirely sectarian differences are forgotten in a com- 
mon sorrow." * 

The common respect and common sorrow are well 
expressed in the following letter from the pastor of the 
First Church. It was written in reply to an invitation 
to be present at the installation of Dr. Peabody's suc- 
cessor, and leaves us at a loss which most to admire, — 
the spirit that dictated the eulogy, or the character that 
drew it forth. 

" Springfield, January 24^, 1848. 

44 To the Committee of the Third Congregational Society 
in Springfield. 

" Gentlemen, — I received your very kind invitation 
to be present at the services preparatory to the installation 
of the man whom you have chosen to fill the place of 
your late beloved pastor. I use the expression as my 
own. No man had a higher sense of the moral excel- 



* Dr. Gannett's Funeral Discourse, p. 28. 



MEMOIR. 



105 



lence and Christian courtesy of the Rev. Dr. Peabody 
than I had. Our intercourse was always pleasant and 
satisfactory to me, and I should have delighted to have 
told the congregation of mourners at his grave how much 
I esteemed him, and how highly I thought of his deep- 
toned piety, as I saw it expressed in his humble resigna- 
tion to the Divine will in the hours of his sorrow, under 
his severe bereavements. Never shall I forget the im- 
pressions which I received in those interviews. I said to 
myself, ' Here is the patience and faith of the saints/ I 
surely cannot desire a greater blessing on your society, 
than that his successor may possess a spirit as kind and 
gentle as his. For the regard expressed for me, you 
will accept my sincere thanks. I have never had it in 
my power to do you many acts of kindness, but if you 
had needed them as a society, I assure you I should have 
performed them with pleasure. I cannot wish any thing 
more agreeable to myself than that my intercourse with 
your pastor, whom you have chosen, may be of a simi- 
lar character to that which I enjoyed with him 6 who is 
not.' Permit me to express the hope, that the mantle 
of the departed may have fallen upon the living prophet, 
and that under his ministrations you and your children 
may ' grow as the lily and cast forth your roots as Leb- 
anon,' and 6 bring forth fruit in old age.' 

" Accept, Gentlemen, my regards for you personally 
and my wish for your individual happiness. 



" Samuel Osgood. 




106 



MEMOIR. 



Peace was indeed, with Dr. Peabody, the language of 
his lips and of his life. He made the duty of love and 
forgiveness often the subject of his exhortations from the 
pulpit, and he was not content to confine his influence 
to his public services, but would urge the matter most 
affectionately and earnestly upon those in whom he was 
interested, whenever he found opportunity to do so. 
In conversation with a friend during the last year of his 
life, he said, — " I will not judge others, but this I must 
say for myself ; that if a human being lived to whom 
I could not cordially extend my hand in sympathy and 
kindness, I should feel that the gate of heaven was 
closed to me." This disposition seemed to be completely 
understood by all those with whom he came in contact, 
and no unkind jealousy could express itself in his pres- 
ence. By the force of sympathy, all ungenerous and 
resentful passions were for the time annihilated. 

During every period of Dr. Peabody's life, his love 
of nature added greatly to his happiness. This was 
manifested very strongly in his earlier writings, in his 
poems, and in the admirable instructions which he gave 
the children in his Sunday school. His intimate ac- 
quaintance with its most interesting forms and aspects 
added a peculiar zest to his enjoyment of nature. He 
seemed always at home when he spoke of the wonderful 
objects by which we are surrounded, and he loved to 
introduce others to the sources of his pleasure. After 
the afflictions which threw so deep a shadow over the 
scenes of his former joys, his love of nature seemed only 
to grow more intense. We find in his diary the follow- 
ing record : — 

" Dec. 17. I was delighted this morning with the 



MEMOIR. 



107 



appearance of the snow on all the branches of the trees. 
It is a fairy-like beauty. It was followed by a rain 
which is still falling ; they call it gloomy, — but is any 
thing gloomy in the creation of God ? " 
And again : — 

"Dec. 27. The trees covered with snow this morn- 
ing. What a beautiful sight ! What a beautiful world ! 
And how strange that I should be more sensible of its 
beauty than ever, now the being whom I love best has 
left me ! It is not her loss, however, but her spiritual 
presence, which strengthens hope and resolution, and in- 
creases my power to enjoy every thing which displays 
the love and blessing of my Heavenly Father." 

One dark November day, when a friend remarked 
to him upon the dreary look of all without, he said, — 
" All days are pleasant to me ; there is not an expression 
on the face of nature which I do not love." At the 
same time, he spoke of the new feeling with which he had 
looked upon the earth since the form he so much loved 
had been laid there. He loved it as he had never done 
before. How much this association endears and conse- 
crates the beautiful spot where they repose together ! 

Perhaps nothing was oftener remarked about Dr. 
Peabody, than that he was, in all places and under all 
circumstances, the Christian minister. This was never 
laid aside in the most unrestrained private intercourse. 
His reverence for sacred things was beautiful and touch- 
ing. No one could feel that there was my formality in 
it, and the spirit was contagious. It seemed entirely 
in keeping with the habit of his thoughts, and you could 
not regard it as any thing but the result of a peculiar 
nearness to the most sacred and sanctifying influences. 



108 



MEMOIR. 



" Was it not a remark often heard, as, with his calm but 
not stern demeanour, and his air of spiritual thought, he 
walked along your streets on some errand of duty or of 
love, ' There goes a disciple of the great Master ' ? 
Did he not recall to your minds the image of him whose 
meat it was to do his Father's will ? You remember his 
Christian deportment, his purity of character, his sim- 
plicity of purpose, his gentleness of manner, the upright- 
ness of his walk, the fidelity of his labor. He had 
opened his heart to his Saviour, and that Saviour had 
become to him 4 wisdom and righteousness, and sanctifi- 
cation and redemption.' " * 

His deportment was always such as seemed in har- 
mony with the highest purposes of life. Noth withstand- 
ing the liveliness of his fancy and the readiness of his 
wit, his conversation was never frivolous, and his very 
presence rebuked the levity of others. Nothing was 
more striking than the fact, that, notwithstanding the 
fastidiousness of his taste and the delicacy of his per- 
ceptions, he never was known to complain of the com- 
panionship of the frivolous, the tedious, or the uninterest- 
ing. His spirit of comprehensive charity and love made 
itself instantly recognized by those who were the objects 
of it. Every thing genuine and good in those around 
him responded to the touch of his sympathy. It was 
therefore true that no one was uninteresting to him, 
because in every one there are elements which are only 
waiting to be developed by the presence of sympathy, 
and when in communication with him, what was wisest 
and best would be called into action. 



* Dr. Gannett 1 s Funeral Discourse, p. 21. 



MEMOIR. 



109 



This view of human beings made his duties as a par- 
ish minister delightful to him. He always spoke of 
them as satisfactory, and after the bereavements which 
overshadowed his home, he said he found more comfort 
in going about among his people than in any other em- 
ployment. Y\ T e find in his diary the following record : — 

" December 12. Began to-day to write the Life of 
Oglethorpe. Pleasant, if I had time, but I have com- 
menced visiting the people with a full determination to 
spend at least every afternoon in that employment. God 

make me faithful ! How much good may be 

done by keeping up this familiar communication ! " And 
again : — " In my visits this afternoon, I was told by a 
mother that her little child had prayed for me ever since 
my affliction, that God would bless and comfort me. 
God bless the dear child ! " 

It was, however, amidst the darkest scenes of life 
that the power of his presence and Christian sympathy 
was most brightly manifested. In the chamber of pov- 
erty and sickness he made himself felt as the protecting 
and sustaining friend ; and more than one bereaved and 
desolate being was heard to exclaim, w^hen he was taken 
away, " I have lost my best earthly friend and adviser." 
At the bedside of the dying, his strong faith fitted him 
to speak with a power which was rarely equalled. 
Those who have listened to his voice at such a season 
have felt the power of faith to lay hold on eternal life ; 
and while he cheered and strengthened the departing 
spirit, he consoled those who were sorrowing round the 
dying bed, and often preached more powerfully there 
than he could have done from the pulpit, through years 
of unbroken prosperity and peace. His faithfulness as a 
10 



110 



MEMOIR. 



pastor was often remembered with gratitude by those 
who were leaving this world, and among the most pre- 
cious rewards of his ministry were these testimonies, 
which came to him from lips so soon to be sealed in 
death. 

His faith was indeed like " the open vision." He 
expresses it most strongly, as we have seen, in the dis- 
courses and the letters written immediately after his 
great bereavements ; and then how beautifully he turned 
back to earth and discharged its humblest duties ! Like 
the monk, in that touching legend with which we are all 
familiar, who lingered not in his cell to enjoy the vision 
of the Saviour, when the hour arrived in which it was 
his duty to feed the poor at the gate of the convent. On 
his return he found the blessed vision still waiting for 
him, and uttering these words, — " Hadst thou stayed, I 
must have fled." 

We cannot cease to speak of him without observing 
that the predominant impression which his character, 
especially in his last years, left upon the mind, was that 
of the supremacy of duty. He had the martyr spirit, 
and could have endured to the end had the martyr's fate 
been his. His was the unconquerable will ; all things 
were possible to him through Christ strengthening him. 
Hence his resolute purpose to let nothing lead him aside 
from the great object of this life, which, as he always 
loved to state it, was " the formation of character in 
preparation for life eternal." 



NOTICES 

OF THE 

REV. OLIVER W. B. PEABODY. 



We feel that, after closing the life of this true minis- 
ter of Christ, our sacred work is not completed, unless 
we endeavour to combine with our recollections of him 
a sketch of that brother with whom through life he was 
so intimately associated in the minds of their friends and 
of the public. The first pages of this Memoir might 
almost be regarded as an autobiography, so much did 
the brothers, in their early days, resemble each other, 
not only in taste and character, but in the outward 
course of their lives. They had the same humility and 
self-distrust, united with dignity and independence ; the 
same uprightness of principle and firmness of purpose, 
blended with a gentle deference for the feelings and 
claims of others, which in youth seem so lovely, and 
which in maturer life lead to such efficient and benevo- 
lent action. They had the same exquisite humor and 
wit, combined with a tenderness and discretion which 
are rarely found in youth ; the same uncompromising 
devotion to duty and to the highest standard of right, 
united with the most gentle and generous judgments of 



112 



NOTICES OF THE 



others. They were alike reserved in manner, and of 
course were fully known only to their more intimate 
friends ; and yet few persons probably ever gave a more 
teue impression of themselves than they did by the simple 
force of a character, which, by its freedom from preten- 
sion, disarmed criticism, and by its benignity, polity, and 
excellence, secured the confidence and respect of all. 

We copy from the Christian Examiner * some details 
respecting the subject of this notice, together with an 
eloquent tribute to his virtues, feeling that we can offer 
nothing which will do equal justice to his memory. 

4; Oliver William Bourne Peabody was bom at 
Exeter, X. H., on the 9th of July, 1799. He was 
twin brother of the late Rev. William Bourne Oliver 
Peabody, and, like him, bore the names of his father, 
the late Judge Peabody, and of his mother's father, 
Hon. William Bourne. The brothers grew up together, 
together were educated by Dr. Abbot in the academy 
of their native town, and together entered Harvard 
College, in 1813. From the moment of their birth to 
that of their separation, the last year, by the death of 
Dr. Peabody of Springfield, they were bound together 
by the closest attachment, and by a striking sympathy in 
tastes, which was marked by such occasional differences 
of temperament as strengthened and gave beauty to the 
union. The very strong personal resemblance between 
the two, which all their friends observed, was not more 
remarkable than this close union of sympathies and 
aims, which always lasted through difference of pursuits 
and of homes, and to which we now look back, as if it 

* For September. 1848. The article is understood to have been 
written by the Rev. Edward E. Hale, of Worcester. 



REV. OLIVER W. B. PEABOBY. 113 

were a forewarning to us that in death they would not- 
long be parted. 

" The brothers entered college at an age now con- 
sidered early, but even at that period Mr. Oliver Pea- 
body showed traits of character and fancy which have 
since been familiar to his friends. ' He was,' in the 
words of one of his early friends, ' a most amiable, 
pleasant young man, full of wit and most irresistible hu- 
mor, with a keen sense of the ludicrous, and the power 
to communicate it to others. He had a love and talent 
for music, and played the flute and sang very agreeably. 
He was also fond of drawing, and sketched with great 
spirit and delicacy. He was always a most delightful 
companion, his conversation most agreeable, enriched as 
it was from his wide reading, from which he always had 
at hand the most apt illustrations.' 

u On leaving college, Mr. Peabody studied his fa- 
ther's profession, under his father's direction, at Exeter. 
He spent some time, also, at the Law School in Cam- 
bridge, before he was admitted to the bar in New 
Hampshire. He then began the practice of the law in 
his native town. In the eleven years which followed, 
he was not confined to the cares of his profession alone. 
He was a member of the State legislature, and at dif- 
ferent times took the editorial charge of the Rocking- 
ham Gazette and the Exeter News-Letter. In the files 
of these papers are articles from his pen sparkling with 
vivacity and humor. These, and other essays and po- 
ems, which he published then and afterwards in various 
journals, are distinguished no less for brilliancy and 
freshness of thought than for a certain polished accuracy 
of style, the result of his patient and diligent care. 
10* 



114 



NOTICES OF THE 



Always nice in expression, always accurate in style, he 
was never formal, dull, or commonplace. His mind 
never lost that eagerness for fresh combinations, and for 
a distinct, unabused point of view, which had given to 
him his early humor and love of the ludicrous. This 
w r as the reason that he wrote so little in comparison 
with the great army of what are called literary men. 
But, for the same reason, there is scarcely any thing 
which he has written that is not worthy of publication, 
and that did not fully answer its purpose, whether to 
rouse a laugh as coming from the carrier of a newspa- 
per, or as an episode in political controversy, or as de- 
manding thought and study, when published in a review 

or delivered before a lyceum Many of our readers 

will recollect the poem w T hich he delivered at Cambridge 
before the Phi Beta Kappa Society, in 1822. When 
the citizens of Portsmouth celebrated the second cen- 
tennial anniversary of that town, he delivered a poem 
which is still remembered with pleasure. He had early 
shown his poetical genius and facility of versification, — 
talents which he always possessed, though he used them 
too little. He and his brother each delivered a poem 
when they graduated at Cambridge, and there are sev- 
eral poems among the published papers to which we have 
alluded. 

" In 1830, Mr. Peabody removed to Boston, which 
was his home for most of the remainder of his life. 
His brother-in-law, Mr. A. H. Everett, was then the 
editor of the North American Review, and Mr. Peabody 
acted as a constant and valuable assistant to him in 
that duty. Till near the close of his life he was an 
occasional contributor to that journal, and for some 



REV. OLIVER W. B. PEABODY. 



115 



years there is scarcely a volume which does not contain 
one or more articles from him. At the same time, for 
several years, he was an assistant editor of the Boston 
Daily Advertiser, and some of his most pointed essays 
were published in that paper, as from time to time they 
were called forth by the changing aspects of political or 
literary affairs. There are certain duties of an editor's 
life for which he was peculiarly fitted. His very wide 
general information, frequently relating to subjects where 
the most careful books of reference are dumb, and all 
indexes useless, served him especially, when called upon, 
as -the editor of a daily journal constantly is, to illustrate 
unexpected movements and explain new events on the 
shortest notice. 

" Mr. Peabody served for two or three years as a 
member of the Massachusetts legislature. In the year 
1836, he was appointed Register of Probate in Suffolk 
county. He filled the duties of this office until 1842. 
It is a laborious post, requiring, under the probate ar- 
rangements of this State, the constant personal attention 
of the incumbent, and close labor from him, if only as 
a copjdst. But Mr. Peabody found time for literary 
studies and occupations. His daily exercise was made 
the means of that study of nature which he always loved. 
And, w T hile both faithful and popular in an employment 
which is certainly not the most refreshing or invigorat- 
ing, he was still to his friends, and to any whom he could 
serve, as full of spirit and life as he had ever been when 
engaged in more exciting daily duties. His health, 
however, always delicate, was impaired by the labors of 
the office, and in 1842 he resigned it, on accepting from 
Jefferson College, an institution endowed and supported 



116 



NOTICES OF THE 



by the State of Louisiana, an appointment as Professor 
of English Literature. He entered on the duties of this 
post in the autumn of that year. But the climate of 
Louisiana proved unfavorable to his constitution, and, 
unwilling to contend longer with the lassitude which it 
induced, he resigned his professorship the next year, and 
returned to the North. 

" It was at as recent a period as this that he entered 
directly upon the sphere of life which commends him 
especially to the interest of the readers of the Exam- 
iner. For many years, perhaps, he had wished to en- 
gage in the Gospel ministry. From his early days he 
had lived under high and pure religious influences, the 
result of clear and well-sustained religious convictions ; 
and of late years his reading had more and more taken 
that turn which would especially prepare him for the 
duties of a Christian minister. On returning from the 
South, he immediately carried out his intention of en- 
tering the ministry, and continued without interruption 
the studies which, with that view, he had thus begun. 
His residence at this time was sometimes in Boston, 
and sometimes in Springfield, with his brother. While 
in Boston, he acted as the Secretary of the i Emigrant 
Society,' as long as that valuable society was in ex- 
istence. Its object was to communicate true informa- 
tion to emigrants, and to those who proposed to emi- 
grate, — and to make arrangements for their reception 
here, that they might be free from the impositions to 
which their condition is peculiarly liable. In this charge 
Mr. Peabody was greatly interested. But the public 
failed to support the society, and after about a year its 
action ceased. 



REV. OLIVER W. B. PEABODY. 



117 



u In the summer of 1844, Mr. Peabody received 
from the Boston Association its license to preach ; and 
in August. 1845. he was settled as the pastor of the 
Unitarian church in Burlington, Vermont, where he had 
preached in the previous spring and summer ; and in 
that beautiful town he lived, in the discharge of his min- 
istry, until his death. His health, however, became 
more and more delicate during the last years of his life, 
and, after a short, acute illness, he died, on the 5th of 
July last, four days before closing his fiftieth year. 

" The ministry had been the profession of his mature 
choice. He knew what it was, or what it might be, for 
he had seen for more than twenty years all the detail 
and beautiful completeness of his brother's ministry in 
Springfield. He knew what he himself should labor to 
do in it, for no man had a deeper sympathy for others, or 
a more devoted reliance upon God. With more and 
more interest, therefore, as his life passed on in other la- 
bors, did he contemplate this field of action. And, there- 
fore, when he entered on his duty at Burlington, it was 
to test hopes which he had long entertained, to try plans 
which were of old familiar to him. To himself it was a 
very happy epoch. It opened to him the whole of a 
field of labor in which he had already gleaned more than 
many professed reapers who had less fervency and zeal 
than he. The relief of the poor, the comfort of the sor- 
rowing, the raising of society, were no new efforts to 
him ; and the duties of a Christian minister only united 
in a specific form hopes, labors, and exertions, to which, 
in whatever occupation, he had always devoted his life. 
His entrance upon those duties, then, could not but be a 
happy event to himself. It was peculiarly a pleasure to 



118 



NOTICES OF THE 



his friends, who felt that he was now exactly where he 
ought to be. You could not see him without feeling 
that he was too refined, too delicate, too tender, to bear 
much of the rough intercourse of the world. You could 
not know him without thinking, that, in whatever calling, 
he was one standing between God and his children, — 
between Jesus and his disciples. He himself would 
never have disowned any activity or rigid monotony of 
labor. In the hard routine of official life, he had no 
complaint to make of his position. But his friends, for 
him, could, and did, rejoice that he should be transferred 
to another scene and sort of effort. 

" And in his ministry, their presages were all made 
real, and his own satisfaction was never dimmed for a 
moment. An affectionate people became more and more 
attached to him, until the moment of his death, which 
separated him from no formal relationship, but from con- 
nection with a company of Christian friends most near 
and most dear. Whoever listened to his fervent, and 
eloquent, and tender exhortations from the pulpit, or 
joined in his affectionate, devout, and appropriate pray- 
ers, thanked God that such a precious servant was min- 
istering at His altar. And his own people, who knew 
him, day by day, and year by year, in the ebbs and 
flows of his delicate health ; who saw him, day by day, 
in his enthusiastic discharge of the home duties of his 
parish ; who followed him in the zeal and poetical ardor 
with which he traced out God in the beautiful scenery 
which surrounded them, — in its prospects, its vegeta- 
tion, its exquisite changes of summer and winter ; they 
who knew him as his friends knew him, — and his friends 
only, — were bound to him every day by a closer and 



■REV. OLIVER W. B. PEABODY. 



119 



closer tie, and every day must have come with him 
nearer and nearer to the God whom he loved while he 
worshipped. The gentle fearlessness with which he 
passed from the world to heaven will always linger in 
their memory. And, now that he has gone, they will 
enjoy more and more with every day that gift which 
death is forced to leave, as one compensation for a part- 
ing, — that nice perception of excellence, which, in the 
hour of grief, springs up from the clear memories of a 
whole life, far more definite, far more complete, than can 
be the ever-changing sentiment with which we regard a 
present, living friend. 

" To give an idea of such a man, the set facts of a 
biography are powerless. The dates and other details 
which we have been repeating do not mark eras in Mr. 

Peabody's character Before his entrance on the 

ministry, as afterwards, he was a man of broad, generous 
culture, of the kindest heart, of the most active gener- 
osity, and of' a living, fervent, devoted soul. Before, as 
well as afterwards, he trained himself by a diligent intel- 
lectual culture, which was doubtless seconded by a high, 
secret, spiritual effort ; so that his education was never 
over, — so that his life was always fresh, and he always 
young. And as his friends look back upon him to-day, 
it is to look back upon one whom they never saw without 
being glad that they saw him, whom they never parted 
from without making him promise soon to meet again ; 
one from whom, whenever they met, they received some 
gift of fancy, of learning, or of love, which they always 
prized, and by which they always remembered him ; and 
to whom, when they separated, they looked back with 
new admiration and love. 



120 



NOTICES OF THE 



a Such reasons have his friends for remembering him 
and mourning for his loss. But by the public he is re- 
membered rather for his gifts of intellect, and as a liter- 
ary man. In all his different occupations, he retained, 
as we have said, the studies and tastes with which in his 
earlier life he had followed literary pursuits, and by 
which he gained the ease and power of usefulness which, 
as a man of letters, he always had. He was interested 
in foreign literature, but was most attracted by the clas- 
sical literature of England. In this he was thoroughly 
versed. His lectures upon it were lively and interest- 
ing, and by his study of it he illustrated his writings and 
his conversation. But as a literary man he deserves this 
as his highest praise, that, even in the goading haste of 
an editor's duty, he never wrote carelessly, or without 
something to say, — that, while he read more than most 
men of letters, he wrote much less, — and that he never 
prostituted his reading to the purpose of mere indolent 
amusement, glancing here and there at the reflections of 
the shadows of what were once great ideas. Passing 
hastily over the ephemeral reviews and restatements 
which shallow flippancy digests from the original effort 
of great minds, he recurred for himself to the authors 
who were worth study ; coped with them, whether dull 
or quaint or obscure, with his own resources ; for him- 
self found out their meaning, and with his own thought 
and labor arranged it for the world. He never published 
any thing but the miscellaneous papers to which we have 
already alluded, and such reports and other papers as he 
drew up in the course of his public duties. At the time 
of his death, however, he had been occupied in preparing 
a memoir of his brother, and this book he left nearly 
ready for publication. 



REV. OLIVER W. B. PEABODY. 121 



" What we have said of Mr. Peabody is eulogy, and 
is meant to be. It is eulogy coming from those who 
knew him too intimately to analyze his character, or 
even to undertake now to write his biography, without 
the presence of fresh regrets. It is the eulogy, how- 
ever, of a spiritual man ; of one in whom the true spirit 
always held ascendency over mere intellect, as over the 
body ; who was less and less bound to the earth, the 
longer he lived upon it. Such a man does not often 
attract around him a large circle of friends, and in Mr. 
Peabody there was a shrinking from observation, a del- 
icate distrust, that perhaps separated him from the wide 
or general intimacy which a bolder man of his genius 
would have sought and gained. But those who knew 
him intimately and well remember him as one whom 
it was a privilege to know, and whom it is a privilege to 
remember." 

It is indeed difficult to analyze the character of this 
devoted Christian and minister, without using language 
which would sound like extravagant eulogy to those who 
knew him not ; for the more nearly we approached him, 
and looked upon the " daily beauty of his life," the 
more did it seem to us that he was one " of whom the 
world was not worthy." He passed through life without 
ever having in view the objects for which most men live. 
His own comfort, interest, reputation, were always sec- 
ondary, and any service that he could render to another 
was more attractive than the pursuit of any object which 
could only benefit himself. 

Manifesting this spirit, as he did in every situation in 
life, it seemed peculiarly a blessing to himself and to 
11 



122 



NOTICES OF THE 



others, when he entered that profession where such self- 
forgetting devotion can be most happily and beneficent- 
ly exerted. Nor were his own hopes and those of his 
friends disappointed. He found in his new course of 
duties more happiness than he had ever dared to im- 
agine, and in his " short, but precious ministry," he 
accomplished more than even his friends had anticipated 
for him. He often spoke of the delight that he found 
in the most common duties of his life as a parish min- 
ister, and he said that he never returned from visiting 
among his people without feeling his heart lightened and 
his best hopes and purposes animated and strengthened. 

His unremitted labors in his distant and isolated field 
of duty soon began to wear upon his strength, and in 
the year 1846 his health visibly declined. At the com- 
mencement of the next year, he said to a friend that he 
felt a deep conviction that he should not live to see 
its close ; and when, in the course of a few months, he 
was summoned to the death-bed of his brother, he ex- 
pressed surprise that he should still be left ; adding, " It 
is but for a little while/' 

It was touching and inspiring to see how this convic- 
tion blended with all his thoughts and purposes ; never 
diminishing his cheerfulness, and only adding new ener- 
gy to the feeling of self-devotion with which he returned 
to his labors. At this time he was urged by many of his 
friends to accept the proposition which had been made 
to him to remove to Boston, and assume the editorial 
charge of the Christian Register, In many respects he 
was eminently fitted for this work, and he was well 
aware that such a lightening of his labors would have a 
beneficial effect upon his health. But he could not be 



REV. OLIVER W. B. PEABODY. 



123 



induced seriously to think of it. He felt that, in leaving 
Burlington, he should leave a scene of usefulness which 
he could not hope to find elsewhere. It was. too, the 
home of his choice, the spot in which he loved to labor, 
and where he hoped to die. 

During the last few weeks of his life, he was engaged 
in preparing a Memoir of his brother, which the friends 
of both were most anxious to have completed by him. 
But while it was in progress, he was arrested by the ill- 
ness which so suddenly terminated his life. During the 
spring, although feeble, he had appeared in nearly his 
usual health, and in more than his usual spirits, and had 
repeatedly observed that he never enjoyed so much the 
beauty of the opening summer. In the latter part of 
June he took a violent cold from exposure to the rain, 
but he still continued his daily visits among his people 
until Saturday, June 24th. On the next day, contra- 
ry to the advice of his friends, he attempted to preach, 
but, in consequence of complete exhaustion, he was 
obliged to omit the afternoon service. On Sunday 
evening he sent for a physician, and never again left 
the house. His disease, which assumed the form of dys- 
entery, prostrated him immediately, although there ap- 
peared no symptoms which were particularly alarming. 
Throughout , the week he was under the influence of 
opiates, and was disposed to converse but little. On 
Sunday morning, however, he requested a friend who 
was sitting by him to read aloud to him the fourteenth 
chapter of John ; and after a little sleep, he roused him- 
self to make some inquiries with regard to the service at 
church. On Tuesday he dictated a telegraphic despatch 
to his sister in Boston, requesting her to come to him. 



124 



NOTICES OF THE 



He then again asked to have portions of St. John's Gos- 
pel read to him, after which he expressed a desire for 
quiet and for sleep. After waking, his mind appeared 
clear, and all his symptoms more favorable. He enjoyed 
the flowers which were offered to him, and manifested 
pleasure in having his friends converse together in his 
room. Early in the morning of Wednesday, July 5, a 
great change was visible in his appearance, and a friend 
who was watching with him communicated to him his 
impression of his danger. He said that he had much to 
do which he had hoped to finish, and afterwards ex- 
pressed the conviction that his friends were unreasona- 
bly anxious about him ; often repeating, that he felt per- 
fectly comfortable and free from pain. Towards noon 
he evidently drew near the end ; and his physician told 
him that he thought him dying. He said that he hoped 
it was an error ; but added, " Living or dying, I am in 
the hands of God." After which his lips moved as if in 
prayer, and his whole soul seemed absorbed in commu- 
nion with Heaven. He continued to breathe but a 
short time, and so peacefully " passed on." 

The following letter was addressed to the editor of 
the New York Enquirer, by a friend and parishioner of 
Mr. Peabody. It is a heartfelt and beautiful tribute to 
the value of his life and ministry. And we feel sure 
that every one will read it with interest. 

" You will probably have heard, ere this reaches you, 
of the sudden and lamented death of the Rev. Oliver 
W. B. Peabody, pastor of the Unitarian Church in this 
town. That sad event occurred on Wednesday, the 5th 
instant, and plunged not merely the society to which he 



REV. OLIVER W. B. PEAEODY. 



125 



ministered, but the whole community, into the profound- 
est sorrow. It has been apparent to most of us, since 
the death of his twin brother, the Rev. Dr. Peabody of 
Springfield, a little more than a year ago, that our 
beloved pastor was wounded by the blow too deeply for 
recovery, and that he could not long be spared to lead 
us in the way of life. Possessed of a self-forgetting de- 
votion to duty, which forbade him to yield to his feelings 
to the injury of his usefulness, he has labored on for 
months against our earnest remonstrances, when he must 
have felt, as we did, that he was truly wearing himself 
out in his Master's service. The last time he preached, 
which was on the next Sabbath but one preceding his 
death, he was unable to go through with the afternoon 
service, and gave notice of the fact at the conclusion 
of the morning exercises. This was to be the end of 
his short, but precious ministry. He left the pulpit with 
feeble and trembling step, and on the next day was 
seized with the malady which terminated his life on the 
Wednesday of the week following. 

"It is impossible to convey to the mind of one re- 
moved from the scene of this good man's labors any 
adequate idea of the universal affection and veneration 
with which, in a short ministry of three years, he has 
inspired this large community. All sectarian divisions 
have yielded to the spontaneous homage of the heart, 
extorted by his unpretending but active excellence. He 
has done more by his walk and conversation to shadow 
forth the beauty of holiness, than many sermons could 
have effected. His life was a most eloquent sermon, of 
which his weekly discourses, though filled with beauty, 
tenderness, and power, seemed but the least important 
11* 



126 



NOTICES OF THE 



part. Wherever the heart of humanity was bowed with 
the weight of sorrow, or pinched by the hard hand of 
penury and want, there most of all he loved to go and 
to be an angel of succour and consolation. Every abode 
of wretchedness within our limits can bear witness of 
his wise counsels, his tender consolations, his unstinted 
generosity. Amid the rigors of our bitterest winters, 
with a frame attenuated and enfeebled by disease, he 
never found an excuse for ceasing from his pursuit of 
the children of woe. 

" A large number of emigrants have been thrown 
among us since the famine in Ireland, and have been 
the subjects of much suffering and distress. To them 
he has been a friend indeed. Day after day, unshrink- 
ing amid the most malignant diseases, he moved among 
them to cheer and to relieve. To the poor, indeed, his 
loss will be irreparable. One day last winter, while out 
upon an errand of mercy with another clergyman of our 
village, he found occasion to dispense his charity freely 
to an object of uncommon suffering, when his associate 
said to him, ' I cannot do as you are doing ; my family 
has claims upon me which I cannot disregard/ ' I 
know that very well,' replied Mr. Peabody ; 6 but 
these are my family,' pointing to those whom his 
bounty was relieving. His bounty, like his Christian 
charity, knew no bounds of sects or creeds, but distilled 
like the blessed dews of heaven, on all alike. He had 
the same indescribable smile of tenderness, which will 
form the sweetest and most enduring feature associated 
with his memory in the hearts of those who knew him, 
for all whom he met. Rich and poor, young and old, 
alike were sure to meet with sunshine in that beaming 



REV. OLIVER W. B. PEABODY. 



127 



and expressive face. It was beautiful to see how the 
children loved him. If one of them was unfortunate, or 
less favored than the rest, he was sure to strive, with 
winning gentleness and delicate generosity, to remove 
the inequality. While the happy and prosperous snared 
his regard, it seemed as if his heart gushed out toward 
the children of sorrow, whatever the cause or form of 
their afflictions. In all these ministries of love, he was 
himself the unfailing bearer of his own bounty and con- 
solation. Scarce any debility was sufficient to deter him 
from the most protracted and laborious walks over our 
widely extended village, and ofttimes, on returning from 
them, he had almost as much need of care as they whom 
he had cared for. He seemed to toil on as if he had no 
time to lose, in order to finish the work appointed for him 
to do, and often remarked that it seemed better for him 
to wear out than to rust out. Thus he pressed ever on- 
ward in the path of duty, becoming each day more and 
more detached from the world, in which he lived but for 
others, and nearer and nearer to that realm whither most 
of those to whom he was bound by ties of kindred had pre- 
ceded him, until he seemed at last to live rather in heaven 
than upon earth, and only waited the welcome summons 
which should call him to his rest and his reward. 

" That summons has at length come. Full of bitter 
affliction as it was to us, we cannot find it in our hearts 
to lament for him. The weariness of the strife against 
debility and disease has given place to the ' fulness of 
joy.' The gentle voice, the winning smile, the slender 
form and feeble step, are with us, indeed, no more ; but 
their memory will remain to cheer and animate us to the 
latest hour of life. 



128 



NOTICES OF THE 



" The sense of bereavement seems to be universal. It 
has been a common remark since his death, as indeed be- 
fore, that he seemed to be the best living impersonation 
of Christian excellence ever known among us ; and to 
those who knew him, this will seem no extravagant praise. 

" His disease was not considered as alarming until a 
few hours before his death, though many of us feared, 
when he was confined, that he would never preach again. 

" The funeral took place on Friday afternoon, at the 
church where he had so faithfully and acceptably min- 
istered. The services were conducted by the Rev. John 
Cordner, of Montreal, and the Rev. John Pierpont, of 
Troy. Mr. Pierpont made an impressive address, en- 
tirely extemporaneous, but full of touching allusions to 
the character of the deceased, and of improving reflec- 
tions on the blessed uses of the death of the righteous. 
The large church was hung in black, and filled with a 
sad and silent assemblage of our citizens, who came to 
pay a parting tribute to a good man's memory. The 
address was just drawing to a conclusion, when a stage- 
coach stopped at the door of the church, and the sister 
of the dead, the widow of the Hon. Alexander H. Ev- 
erett, late Commissioner to China, who had been sent 
for a few days before, and whose arrival was anxiously 
expected up to the very hour of the funeral, came to 
take her last look at the face of her brother, in the midst 
of the people to whom he had ministered, and who were 
now assembled to pay the last tribute of affection and 
regard to his remains. The scene was such as few will 
ever witness again. The tears of the bereaved sister, as 
she gave one look at the calm face of the unconscious 
dead, whom she had not seen for years, and would never 



REV. OLIVER W. B. PEABODY. 129 



see again in this world, fell not alone. For several min- 
utes the sobs throughout the house, the tears that fell 
from ' eyes unused to weep,' attested the intensity of 
that sympathy which every heart spontaneously offered 
to one so sorely tried. 

44 After the coffin was deposited in the grave, the 
children of the Sunday School gathered around it, and 
flung each a boquet of flowers as an offering to their 
beloved pastor and friend. 4 Here,' said Mr. Pierpont, 
4 are the three most beautiful things in the world, — 
flowers, the most beautiful things in the vegetable world, 
brought by children, the most beautiful objects in animal 
nature, as an offering to the most beautiful thing in the 
spiritual world, the memory of a pure, and good, and 
holy man.' 

" On Sunday, Mr. Pierpont preached a most appro- 
priate discourse from 2 Timothy iv. 6-8, to a large 
and attentive audience." 

On Sunday, July 16th, Rev. Dr. Parkman preached 
an appropriate sermon in the church where Mr. Pea- 
body had ministered. We copy the following extract, 
which was published in the Christian Register soon after 
the delivery of the discourse. The text was taken from 
Job xiv. 19, and from the First Epistle of Peter, i. 3 : 
" Thou destroyest the hope of man." But, 44 Blessed 
be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who, 
according to his abundant mercy, has begotten us again 
to a lively hope of an inheritance incorruptible, undefiled., 
and that fadeth not away." 

44 You need, my Christian brethren, amidst the disap- 
pointment of your cherished earthly hope, the strength 



130 



NOTICES OF THE 



and solace which can come alone from faith in God, and 
from the hope that is full of immortality. It has pleased 
Him, who £ doeth all things well,' the Sovereign Dis- 
poser of life and death, to appoint to you the bitterness 
of bereavement. You mourn with this day the depart- 
ure of him on whom your hearts reposed. Those of us 
who have been favored by the privilege of his friendship, 
who observed in other and various scenes his rich endow- 
ments, his well-ordered mind, his generous affections, his 
fidelity to duty, and his blameless life, can well mingle 
our sympathies and prayers with yours in this night of 
your sorrow. Some of us were witnesses, in his earlier 
years, of the ability, faithfulness, and considerate care 
with which he discharged an honorable trust, before he 
entered upon that which your experience of his gifts has 
shown to have been his appropriate calling, and which, I 
believe, had ever been the first choice of his heart. 
There was much in his fulfilment of that relation that 
was congenial with the kindness of his spirit ; and many 
a widow and orphan, who amidst the tenderness of recent 
bereavement were the objects of his official service, cher- 
ish gratefully his memory, as of a compassionate friend. 
You, my brethren of this flock, have witnessed here, in 
this fair and beautiful scene of his labors, how he 6 walked 
so as to please God ' ; with what serenity and gentleness, 
with what modest dignity and meekness of wisdom, with 
what guileless simplicity and disinterested charity, that 
sought not, however justly it w T as meriting, the praises 
of men, he made proof of his ministry among you. The 
young of the flock he led as a good shepherd by the side of 
still waters, and guided with the skilfulness of his hands. 
Even the least of the little ones were encouraged by the 



REV. OLIVER W. B. PEABODY. 131 



tenderness of his instructions ; and it was seen, as I 
have learned, what a place he had gained in their hearts, 
as with weeping eyes they strewed the flowers which he 
loved, and had taught them also to love, as 6 the smiles 
of God's goodness,' upon his closing grave. The sick 
and the desponding were soothed by his gentle consola- 
tions and availing prayers. The sinner might have been 
won to goodness by his example ; and all you, my friends, 
have tasted together here of the fruit of his lips, have 
been admonished by his faithful counsels, and have seen 
how well they were illustrated in his holy life. 

" Nor was it within the circle of your religious society 
alone that his good influence was felt, or his worth ac- 
knowledged. God has given to virtue a power that can- 
not fail, and our friend possessed in no common measure 
those qualities which command the confidence of man- 
kind. The modesty of his spirit was not permitted to 
check the activity of his benevolence, but rendered it 
only the more attractive from the delicacy and unobtru- 
siveness with which his bounty was conveyed. His walks 
of usefulness extended far beyond the limits of his flock. 
In his charities, dispensed silently as the dew of heaven, 
he admitted no distinctions that did not embrace the suf- 
fering of every name. And, were evidence needed of 
the respect which his character inspired in all classes of 
this community, especially of the humblest, it would be 
found in the earnestness with which, on the day of his 
funeral, they came up to this house of prayer, which was 
to them, as well as to you, the house of mourning, and 
in the touching demonstrations of their grief as they 
paid their tribute to his honored remains. 

" It was your earnest hope, that one so honored and 



132 



NOTICES, ETC. 



beloved should be spared to bless you. The few months 
or years in which you were favored with his ministry 
only quickened your solicitude, that it might long be 
continued to yourselves and to your children. But it is 
not the pleasure of our Heavenly Father that the high- 
est purposes of usefulness should be here accomplished. 
He has other spheres and brighter worlds in which to 
employ and make perfect the gifts which he has be- 
stowed ; and honorable age is not that which standeth 
in length of days, or that which is measured by the 
number of its years ; but wisdom is the gray hairs of 
man. and an unspotted life old age. Having been per- 
fected in a short time, he hath fulfilled a long time. 
What though his sun has gone down while it is yet noon- 
day ? what though the lips that spoke sweetly for God 
and virtue are silenced in death, and the hands that were 
lifted in prayer or stretched forth in charity are lifeless 
in the grave ? Even so, Father, for so it seemed good 
in thy sight. It is good for him, for he has ascended to 
his reward ; and it shall be good for us, if we only be 
faithful to his memory and follow in his steps. Let it 
please Him with whom are the souls of the righteous. — 
who can make bereavement as well as bounty, death as 
well as life, the ministry of his love, — to quicken us by 
his Spirit in the work he has given us to do, so that, 
when the shadows of earth shall have passed, we may 
be gathered with the pardoned and redeemed in the 
kingdom of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ." 



SERMONS. 



12 



SERMON I. 



EARNEST DEVOTION. 
they rest not day and night. — Revelation iv. 8. 

Would not any one say that this was meant as a 
description of mankind in the present world? Al- 
ways intent on some favorite object; they are some- 
times lifted to the skies with the prospect of success, 
then despairing in the same proportion when their 
hopes are overcast, and so agitated till this momen- 
tary object passes from their minds and gives place 
to another, to be pursued with equal devotion, and 
then cast off with equal disregard. Even if mankind 
have no such objects, the same words well describe 
them : for then they become equally restless for the 
want of some object. " They rest not day and 
night, " because their minds, having nothing to en- 
gage them, prey upon themselves. In either case, 
employed or not employed, men are like the troubled 
ocean, always heaving, with or without a visible 
cause, always in motion, even when all the winds 
are still. 

But however descriptive of the usual state of this 
world these words may be, such was not their pur- 



136 



EARNEST DEVOTION. 



pose. They were not said in reference to this world, 
nor to any thing in it. The beloved disciple in his 
lonely exile had his mind cheered with visions of the 
future prosperity of the church, and sometimes was 
permitted to see a glimpse of heaven through the 
broken clouds. It was when one of these bright but 
momentary revelations glanced upon his view that 
he saw the eternal throne surrounded by its rainbow, 
with the elders in white robes and crowns of gold, 
and the mystic cherubim, before it. He heard the 
cherubim saying, " Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Al- 
mighty,"' and the elders responding in the heavenly 
anthem, and casting their crowns before the throne. 
They rested not day and night. 

While, then, these words were spoken in reference 
to what the xlpostle saw in another world, and not 
in this, they suggest what seems to be an indispen- 
sable condition or law of high spiritual attainment 
and earnest devotion. 

When man was first placed upon the earth and 
commanded to subdue it, how helpless he seemed to 
contend with the elements of nature ! Without ex- 
perience, without skill, without instruments, with 
nothing but his mind and his frame, it must have 
seemed impossible that the earth should ever be sub- 
dued by him. But behold what he has done. The 
desert is turned into a garden ; the mountains have 
given way, and the valleys have been filled up, be- 
fore him ; taking the winds and fires for his ministers, 
he has rushed fearlessly across the depths of the sea. 
Not content with earthly labors, his enterprising sci- 



EARNEST DEVOTION. 



137 



ence has wheeled in triumph through the skies, ex- 
ploring the balanced clouds, measuring the distance 
of the sun, and pursuing the star that wanders to the 
utmost verge of heaven. And how has all this been 
accomplished ? How has man been able to do these 
things which seemed so immeasurably above his 
reach ? It is because he has not rested day nor night. 
It is because, when his mind once became possessed 
with one of these great ideas, he has given himself 
no repose till his work was accomplished, till he has 
known all that patient thought could discover, and 
done what persevering industry was able to do. 

In the Apostle's vision of heaven, he is struck with 
the glowing devotion of the spirits before the throne. 
It is pure, fervent, and exalted ; it is subject to no 
changes of rising and falling emotions ; it is always 
as great as the perfections of the Infinite require, 
and as the nature of the hearts from which it pro- 
ceeds permits it to be. Do you ask, " How can it be 
sustained at such a height, when all human devotion 
is so easily brought down, — how can their minds be 
kept fixed on the object of their adoration, when hu- 
man thoughts so readily wander away ? " The ex- 
planation is found in the words, " They rest not day 
and night " ; their hearts are always engaged in the 
service : the night suspends it not, for there is no 
night there. It is because they are thus devoted, — 
in a word, it is because they rest not, — that their de- 
votion maintains itself so fervent, and towers so high. 

This, then, illustrates the great truth which ought 
to be impressed on every heart before me ; religious 
12* 



138 



EARNEST DEVOTION. 



improvement, the chief object of existence, requires 
the steady devotion of all our powers to secure it. 
In proportion as man rests from that labor does he 
surrender the hope and power of ever securing that 
prize. In proportion as he resists that temptation 
does he advance in excellence and devotion, and 
therefore in resemblance to the seraphs and sons of 
light who surround the heavenly throne. 

Consider the effect of inaction upon the physical 
nature. The frame which is regularly exercised, if 
not urged beyond its strength, grows in firmness and 
energy, and expands in full and fair proportion. All 
the currents of life in it are quick and glowing ; the 
man hardly feels that he has a body, so little does it 
encumber the free action of the soul- But let the 
frame be given over to rest, let the man have no 
steady employment that requires interest and exer- 
tion, and it is not long before disease begins to spread 
through the system, sometimes manifesting itself in 
the whole head sick and whole heart faint, or treasur- 
ing up its hidden wrath against the day when it shall 
strike one desperate blow, and break the frame with 
hopeless infirmity, or crush it down at once into the 
grave. 

Consider the effect of inaction upon the mind of 
man. There is a strong analogy between the wants 
of the body and the mind ; exertion is indispensable 
to the health of each ; and though one who lives 
without exercising either may not yet perceive the 
injury he is doing to himself, it is not less certain 
that the day of recompense and sorrow must come. 



earnest devotion. 



139 



Disease is as sure to follow the inactive mind as the 
inactive body. Its effects are not open to the eye, 
or rather they are not noticed by careless observers 5 
though they may be seen in the incapacity for serious 
reflection, in the depraved intellectual taste which 
can relish only miscellaneous novelty or intoxicating 
fiction, or in the distaste for common enjoyments 
which drives men to indulgences that stupefy the un- 
derstanding and destroy the soul. Yes, there is dis- 
ease to the mind, and there is death that follows it, 
far more sad than the disease and death which lay 
the body in the dust. When the body dies, its pains 
and sorrows are over ; not so, not so with the mind, 
which dieth not ; when coldness wraps the suffering 
clay, the mind still lives and must live for ever. 

Consider the effect of inaction on the spiritual na- 
ture of man. It is common to meet with those who 
neither look forward to eternity nor up to God ; and 
the consequence is, not only that their devotion, if 
they ever had any, dies, but also that they lose the 
power of devotion. They lose all power of spiritual 
discernment, so that the great realities of another 
world have no presence nor life to the soul. Some 
are so thoughtless, that they are not troubled at what 
is going on within them ; but those whose conscience 
is not quite gone cannot live thus without uneasi- 
ness. They are disquieted within ; they try to ac- 
count for their indifference to the things which ought 
to engage them by ascribing them to other influen- 
ces or other men. The views of religion in which 
they were educated, the preachers they have been 



140 



EARNEST DEVOTION. 



used to hear, the unworthy representatives of Chris- 
tian character they have been accustomed to see, — to 
these, and indeed to any thing sooner than to them- 
selves, they ascribe their indifference, when the truth 
is that it originates within. They will make exper- 
iment of new teachers and new fancies ; one painted 
form of godliness will be adopted and dismissed after 
another : each will be in its turn enthusiastically wel- 
comed and ccldly rejected, but the disease will re- 
main the same, because it is one of those incurable 
infirmities which in the order of nature inevitably 
comes on spiritual natures not exerted, and it ends 
in what inspiration calls the death of the soul. 

This is the darkest and most fearful thought that 
can be presented to the human mind, — the death 
and ruin of the soul. I know there is a common 
persuasion, that, even if the powers of devotion have 
slept for years, if the man has been through all his 
life steadily indifferent to spiritual things, he may 
yet be awakened to a sense of his guilt and danger. 
It is true he may ; but if he is awakened to a sense 
of guilt and danger, that consciousness is not suffi- 
cient to remove them. I know there is strength in 
Jesus, who is " the power of God and the wisdom of 
God," more than sufficient to remove them. But can 
the man be sure that he shall ever have that faith in 
Jesus Christ, without which the blood of the ever- 
lasting covenant will not avail him ? There is a time, 
when, as the Apostle says, " ye cannot do the things 
that ye would," — when the awful sentence passes 
on the unprofitable soul, " Let no fruit grow on thee 
henceforth for ever ! " 



EARNEST DEVOTION. 



141 



The same is true of love to men, that other great 
duty which God has so intimately associated with 
devotion. This feeling can be strengthened into a 
principle by the common sympathy of life, — that 
sympathy which is never so strong and sure as when 
sanctified by religious feeling. But if our benevo- 
lent impulses are not followed, we lose not only the 
opportunity of the moment, but we lose the power 
of exertion : and thus it is that men, without know- 
ing it, sink into a selfishness so inveterate that they 
will do nothing and sacrifice nothing either for God 
or man. and, while others wonder at their hardness, 
never suspect that their hearts are cold. They are 
like the wayfarer in the polar regions : after suffering 
awhile with the cold, he feels a sleep stealing over 
him ; it comes without pain, it gives no warning of 
danger ; unable to resist the persuasive influence, he 
sinks into slumber, from which he never wakes in 
this world again. It is in the same way that hearts 
are frozen ; they feel no danger, they suspect not 
that the sleep which is stealing over them is the 
sleep of death. 

Having thus endeavoured to show what law we 
are under, let us take a more practical view of the 
subject. Love to God and love to man are the great 
elements of that character which we are sent into 
this world to form, and it is practising on these prin- 
ciples which gives them power and increases their 
power within us. It is because the seraphs rest not 
day and night, that their hearts become living flames 
in the service of their God, 



142 



EARNEST DEVOTION. 



We are to remember, then, that God has so arranged 
the present life that all things favor the growth of 
love to man in those who really determine to pos- 
sess it, while all things seem to hinder it in those 
who hold it in slight regard. Whenever an oppor- 
tunity of benevolence is offered, — whenever God's 
providence makes an appeal, as it often does, to our 
kind feeling, — we should feel that to resist it or reject 
it is wrong. Not only is there sin in the immediate 
act of suppressing the kind suggestion. It is not a 
thing that ends here ; it is not a thing neglected 
and then over ; no, the results of that neglect are to 
go deep and far into the life. It is so much done to 
injure and destroy the principles and affections which 
form the only treasures of heaven ; they are all the 
wealth we can carry from this world into another, 
and without them we shall be poor indeed. 

So, if we have the least desire to possess the spirit 
of devotion, we shall take advantage of every time 
and every service that can awaken the spirit of de- 
votion. We shall welcome the Sabbath as often as 
it returns to remind us of that duty and invite us to 
perform it. We shall welcome its deep silence and 
sacred repose, in which we sometimes seem to hear 
the bells of heaven sounding far and faintly in the 
sky. We shall not say, as the manner of some is, 
that we need not go with the multitude to the places 
of social prayer ; for He who knows our nature sees 
that unless love to men goes hand in hand with love 
to God, the latter may become a degenerate, even 
a selfish affection, losing all its life and power. 



EARNEST DEVOTION. 



143 



Therefore does He associate the duties, that we may 
grow in familiarity and attachment to our brethren, 
while we are advancing in the heavenly preparation 
of love to God : and therefore does He expect us to 
improve these means of strengthening that power of 
devotion, which, if not exerted, sinks into withering 
inaction and incurable decay. To neglect these op- 
portunities is not simply losing what can be made up 
at some future time : it will not do to say that some 
future time is as good as the present hour. No, for 
if the time should come, the power may be gone ; 
and when the man tries in agony to kindle the faint 
spark within him into a flame, he may find that his 
heart, once suffered to grow cold, shall never be 
warm again. 

To return, then, to the vision of heaven with which 
we began ; we hope at some future time to be there. 
Our days are fast going down to join the past eter- 
nity, and the day cannot be distant which shall call 
us to the land of souls. If we hope to join with 
the radiant spirits round the throne, we must faith- 
fully cherish the power of devotion. After the man- 
ner of those who rest not day and night, our prayer 
must ascend when the morning lights up the skies, 
and when the evening sheds its sweet influences on 
the world below. We must suffer no other care, no 
other pleasure, to prevent our engaging in that earth- 
ly communion with God, which, more than any 
thing else, prepares us for his presence and service 
on high. 



SERMON II. 



THE SISTERS OF CHARITY. 

this woman was full of good works and almsdeeds which 
she did. — Acts ix. 36. 

The incidents of Scripture are told with perfect 
simplicity, — with almost severe simplicity, — trust- 
ing, doubtless, that the book would be near men's 
hearts ; for if the thought and imagination are quick- 
ened into strong, powerful action by the deep interest 
which it should inspire, the barren outline will fill 
up, the faded colors will kindle into life. These 
records of the past will come before us in present 
reality, and we shall feel their power ; for they not 
only record what has been, but what can be again, 
— what will be, must be, again. They are histories 
of the heart, which is ever new and ever young. 

It is an affecting history of the kind which is now 
before us. In the town of Joppa, which, under its 
present name of Jaffa, has been the scene of bloody 
tragedies in our own day, dwelt a young person who 
had given herself to labors of humanity, and there- 
fore was among the foremost to become a Christian. 
Her name, Tabitha, was the Syrian name of the 



THE SISTERS OF CHARITY. 



145 



gazelle, which throughout the East is the image of 
beauty and gracefulness, of 

" airy step and glorious eye, 
That glance in tameless transport by " ; 

and this, as all antiquity agrees, was given her for 
her singular loveliness and attraction. With all the 
means of enjoying life, as it is called, — O, how little 
that enjoyment of life is understood ! — she chose the 
better part ; in the days of her youth, when life was 
bright before her, she lived for others and for God, 
In the midst of her usefulness she fell sick and died ; 
many hearts died within them at the loss. In their 
sorrow they sent for the Christian apostle, to receive- 
from him the comfort which his religion bestows. 
When he came, they took him to the chamber where 
the lifeless body lay ; and the poor and destitute 
crowded round him, telling him, with many tears, of 
the virtues of their benefactor, and showing with 
warm-hearted gratitude what she had done for 
them all. 

He perceives at once that such a life cannot yet 
be spared. It is wanted to give loveliness and at- 
traction to the religion which she professed, while it 
is yet new and unwelcome to the world. He kneels 
down and prays, and the life returns to the tenant- 
less clay. How, like a flash from heaven, it must 
have fired with heavenly joy those hearts which 
were mourning for her as lost for ever ! But was it 
not hard to recall her from the mansions of rest? 
Was it not hard to reclaim her, to pass through the 
13 



146 



THE SISTERS OF CHARITY. 



bitterness of life and the agony of death again ? No ; 
for to such a spirit life could not be otherwise than 
happy, and the pains of death are swallowed up in a 
victory of the soul. And it must be remembered 
that a spirit like hers is in perfect harmony with its 
Father's will, having no desire to rest before its work 
is done, no desire to live or die, except as it pleases 
God. 

I present to you this sweet passage of sacred his- 
tory, in hope that it will inspire some of the young 
to give themselves, as she did, to the service of hu- 
manity, resisting the selfish influences and maxims 
of the world, — to resolve, in the outset of existence, 
that they will spend it as the Saviour did, going 
about doing good. Here you see what enthusiastic 
affection such a life awakened in those who saw it, 
and how deep was the sense of personal loss, when 
it seemed to have closed in death. You see, too, and 
let this be remembered, that such a life was impor- 
tant, even in the sight of God himself ; so much so, 
that he gave power and charge to an apostle to send 
his voice into the world of spirits to summon back 
her soul. Such a life is within your reach ; any one 
of you may secure the same treasures of affection, 
the same peace of conscience, the same unfading 
crown. 

Has the Christian world been unmoved by these 
inspiring and beautiful examples ? or rather, has the 
voice of the Saviour produced no effect on young 
hearts when it calls them to glory and virtue, — to 
the service of humanity and the bearing of the cross ? 



THE SISTERS OF CHARITY. 



147 



In the Catholic Church there have been those who 
have listened to his words. — who, in the morning of 
existence, when the world was bright before them, 
with wealth, high birth, and beauty, and every thing 
to bind them to earthly things, have, nevertheless, 
chosen the better part, — content to watch by the 
bedside of the sick, to visit the sufferer of the cottage, 
to enlighten the dark soul, to give their sympathy to 
the destitute and forsaken, and follow as Sisters of 
Charity in the path of their heavenly Master. There 
were errors in the Catholic Church, no doubt ; but not 
in this. It was religion, pure and undefiled before 
God and the Father ; and well would it be for us, 
when we condemn a sect or party, to cherish and 
imitate every thing that is good about them, and 
suffer their frailties to rest, always remembering that 
goodness is goodness, in whatever heart it dwells, 
and that whoever in early life turns away from the 
broad and beaten path, and labors up the hill of truth 
and duty, must, as heaven is true, be like charity 
itself, for ever blessing and for ever blest. 

We boast that our faith is purer than theirs. If 
so, it should produce more of the fruits of righteous- 
ness and mercy. The faith which works by love 
is the faith which Jesus would fain inspire : and 
when I ask that some would give themselves thus 
to the service of humanity and the cross, shall not 
the call, — it is the call of God, ■ — shall it not find 
an answer in some young heart ? I ask none to sep- 
arate themselves from the world. " for the field is the 
world " ; there it is that these constant acts of kind- 



148 



THE SISTERS OF CHARITY. 



ness are to be done. I ask none to separate them- 
selves from domestic life and happiness, but only 
that the same light which blesses those that are in 
the house should shine out to cheer and bless the 
darkness of the less favored sons of men. Choose 
this path of truth and mercy, and you will hereafter 
glory in your choice ; it will be a life-long blessing : 
and with what a radiant happiness it will light up 
your closing day ! 

But let us look at the subject nearer. I think I 
hear some one saying in her heart, " I cannot make 
this sacrifice." I would answer, My friend, you are 
deceiving yourself with a word. You may be sure 
that you can make no sacrifice to God, whatever 
you do or suffer ; you may be sure, that, if your heart 
is right, you will receive far more than you give up 
to him ; if he calls you to suffer, he will give you 
more than he takes away. But why this constant 
demand for happiness ? Why do you feel as if life 
was lost, unless you enjoy every hour ? This is not 
the purpose for which you are here ; it is not to be 
happy that you are sent into this world. The single 
object of existence is to be holy, heavenly-minded ; 
if you can secure this treasure of holiness, it is of 
little importance whether life is passed in want or 
comfort, in sorrow or in joy. But I pray you to ob- 
serve the goodness of Heaven in this, that the paths 
of duty and happiness are inseparably one. The 
person who makes the most entire surrender of self- 
indulgence and self-will, who devotes herself most 
earnestly, most intensely, to the service of others. 



THE SISTERS OF CHARITY. 



149 



never seeming to have a thought for her own com- 
fort or pleasure, shall receive what she is daily meas- 
uring out to others, returned in full measure, pressed 
down and running over into her own breast. The 
deepest enjoyment of life that ever I have seen, the 
finest sensibility to all those blessings in which this 
world abounds, — yes, by far the truest and surest hap- 
piness that I have ever witnessed, — has been found 
in connection with this self-sacrificing spirit : by lov- 
ing itself last, it gained all the joy of others in addi- 
tion to its own. If I thirsted to secure the happiness 
of any human being, I should pray that such a being 
might take up the cross, giving heart, hand, and life 
to the labors of love which the Saviour delighted to 
do ; for then I should be sure that His joy would be 
in that heart, and its joy would be full, so that, at 
the close of every laborious day, it would pour itself 
out in the words, — " O God, thou hast blessed me ! 
I ask for no more." 

But while it is not necessary that a human being 
should be happy, it is necessary that every one who 
values his soul should be united in full sympathy 
with the Saviour, drawing the support of its relig- 
ious life from him and through him, as a branch is 
nourished by the vine from which it grows. Christ 
thus in us, exerting influence in us, and quickening 
life in us, is our only hope of glory : and there can- 
not be an object more important to every true heart, 
than to secure this union of sympathy, desire, pur- 
pose, and endeavour with the Saviour, which shall 
make his feelings our feelings, which shall make us 
13* 



150 



THE SISTERS OF CHARITY. 



look on all things as he saw them, and give us a 
deep and sincere interest in that which he most de- 
lighted to do. There is no way in which this union 
can be formed so surely and so soon, as to engage 
with all the heart in those labors and charities which 
were the daily work and pleasure of his life when 
he was on earth. Perform a kind action and you 
find a kind feeling growing in yourself, even if it 
was not there before. As you increase the number 
of objects of your kind and charitable interest, you 
find, that, the more you do for them, the more you 
love them. If such charities are guided by your 
taste or fancy, and limited to those in whom you 
happen to be interested, it will not be so. You will 
find that charity itself may be a self-indulgence 
merely, and then it will only strengthen selfish feel- 
ing. But only act upon the broad principle of love, 
as unfolded in the Saviour's life ; serve others, not 
because they are your friends, not because they are 
interesting, not because they are grateful, — serve 
them when they are unfriendly, when they are dis- 
tasteful, even disgusting, — serve them when they 
are ungrateful, — serve them because they are the 
children of your Father, and therefore are all your 
brethren, — and you will soon find that the fervent 
heart keeps time with the charitable hands, and warms 
towards the Saviour as its best and kindest friend. 
Surely such labor is not vain; and w r hen Christ, who 
is your life, shall appear, you will rejoice that you 
chose that path, however hard it may have been to 
tread. 



THE SISTERS OF CHARITY. 



151 



But this full sympathy with our Saviour in his 
views, principles, and feelings is not the ultimate 
object, the great object, of the Christian life. The 
only worthy object of any life is to be as nearly as 
possible one with the Father ; so that when we act 
or suffer, our will shall be in perfect harmony with 
that of God. It is through Jesus Christ that we can 
ascend to this attainment. He is the way through 
which we can reach the knowledge and love of the 
Father ; beginning with the imitation and love of 
Jesus, we travel upward to that filial reverence, trust, 
and love of God, which is the prize of our high 
calling, — which whoever has is rich, and cannot be 
poor, whatever else is taken away. " As thou, Fa- 
ther, art in me. and I in thee, that they also may be 
one in us." As the Father was in his heart, and he 
in his Father's, that these weak human hearts might 
be turned to the heavenly spirits who love them with 
answering confidence of love. Labor as you will, 
dream as you will of other happiness, you will find 
in another world that this is the great happiness of 
existence, — -the only one that satisfies, the only one 
that endures : it is fulness of joy, it is life for ever- 
more. 

But how can you reach this great attainment, — to 
be thus in harmony with the Father ? There are 
worlds of delusion here. It is frightful to think how 
many are constantly using religious language, and 
expressing devotional feelings, merely from a re- 
ligious taste, and because they enjoy it, when there 
is no consecration of temper, of passions, of heart. 



152 



THE SISTERS OF CHARITY. 



or life, to God. How can you escape this most 
dreadful of all delusions ? You see the Father in 
the life of his Son ; he said that a favor to one of 
the least, the most despised, the most hated, of these 
my brethren, — observe those words, of these my 
brethren, — was a favor done to him. And in this 
shone forth the spirit of the Father, and his deep 
and tender concern for all the creatures he has made. 
Would you be, then, in harmony with the Father ? 
After holding near communion with him, go forth to 
serve the least of your brethren, those whom even 
the Samaritan passes by ; make it sure that you can 
treat those whom the Saviour calls his brethren as 
your own. Do not deceive yourself as thousands 
do, by gratifying your own taste and feeling, and 
calling this charity : but under all circumstances of 
disgust, contempt, and provocation, be unwearied in 
well-doing, and be sure that you are doing it, not for 
your own sake, but your Master's. The more faith- 
fully, the more entirely, you can do this, the sooner 
will the love of God be shed abroad in your hearts. 
By doing his will, you will arrive at the understand- 
ing of Christian truth, and the full enjoyment of that 
peace which passes understanding, with which it is 
happiness to live, and glory and gain to die. 

I am the more earnest in offering this example, 
and proposing this dedication of the life, because 
there is a service to Christianity which some should 
step forward to render. There is much genuine re- 
ligious feeling in the world, but it is not seen in at- 
tractive forms. It is found in connection with nar- 



THE SISTERS OF CHARITY. 



153 



rowness ; gloom, and unsocial feeling, and the unen- 
gaging aspect which it wears is associated with the 
faith itself in the minds of beholders ; so that now 
the greatest service that can be done to religion is 
to make it lovely by the daily beauty of the Chris- 
tian life ; to show it forth again as it appeared in the 
life of Jesus, so that all shall be impressed with a 
sense of its loveliness, and all hearts shall open to its 
power. This work is for the young to do. Like 
the person of whom it is said that she was full of 
good works and almsdeeds, let them show what the 
faith is which inspires them, by their active, bound- 
less, and never-failing charity, and words cannot tell 
how much they will do to remove all unbelief and 
indifference, and to clear the way for Christianity to 
travel from heart to heart, and from glory to glory. 
Any one who can do this, any one who has done 
this, shall come up in grateful remembrance before 
God. Do this, and on your tomb shall be written, — 
" She suffered long, and was kind ; she envied not : 
she was not variable ; she was not puffed up. She 
never behaved herself harshly : she sought not her 
own ; she was not easily provoked ; she thought no 
evil. She rejoiced not in iniquity : she rejoiced in 
the truth. She covered all things, believed all 
things, hoped all things, and endured all things. ' ? 
Give yourself wholly to these things, and such will 
be the memory you will leave behind you. Such a 
memory shall be like the sunlight reflected from the 
western clouds, even more beautiful than the rays of 
that glorious luminary before it went down ; and 



154 



THE SISTERS OF CHARITY. 



bright shall be your rising in the world beyond the 
grave. 

I propose this example and this life to you, in the 
hope that it will meet an answering feeling in some 
heart before me. What a privilege, what a glory, to 
you it would be ! 

" Lives of sainted ones remind you 

You can make your life sublime, 
And in parting leave behind you 

Footsteps on the shores of time, 
Footsteps, which perhaps another 

Voyager o'er life's solemn main, 
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 

Seeing, shall take heart again." 

For whoever leads a life of charity serves God. not 
only by these acts, and smiles, and expressions of 
love, but also, and even more, by inspiring others, 
by the " Go thou and do likewise," which every 
such life breathes out with a commanding voice. I 
entreat you to secure this blessing : it is within the 
reach of any hand, if the full heart goes with the 
endeavour. It is one of the few things which here- 
after you will not wish undone or otherwise done : 
it will be the pearl of greatest price in youv immortal 
crown. 



SERMON III.* 



READY TO BE OFFERED. 

I AM NOW READY TO BE OFFERED, AND THE TIME OF MY DEPART- 
URE is at hand. — 2 Timothy iv. 6. 

I know not where you will find in man's history 
a nobler scene than this. It is a servant of God 
standing near the eternal world ; and where the timid 
and the brave alike turn pale, he gazes, with clear, 
calm, I might say with triumphant eye, into that 
eternity where most men are afraid to look. In the 
midst of long imprisonment, deserted by his friends, 
entirely in the power of his foes, evidently having 
nothing human to support him, he feels neither de- 
spondency nor dismay. He rejoices, — that word is 
not too strong, — he rejoices in the hope set before 
him. That same hope, which to thousands in the 
Christian world is nothing, having less power than 
the poorest earthly hope to make them glad, is every 
thing to him, having power to make even the deep 
dungeon bright. He is " troubled on every side, yet 
not distressed ; perplexed, but not in despair ; perse- 



* Preached at the funeral of William Bliss, Esq., who died March 
8, 1838. 



156 



READY TO BE OFFERED. 



cuted, but not forsaken ; cast down, but not de- 
stroyed." 

See how he employs himself in that awful hour : 
not with his own feelings, not with his own hopes 
and fears ; for he was dead to the world , and the 
world was dead to him. His hopes are for others : 
his fears are for others ; he ardently desires that 
others may share the faith which has given such firm- 
ness to him. And therefore does he charge his friend, 
in the presence of the living God, — before Jesus 
Christ, who is to judge the living and the dead, — 
to press home the truths of the Gospel to every heart : 
to suffer no consciences to sleep, if it is possible to 
wake them ; to prevent them from going unprepared, 
unconcerned, to the place where every one shall re- 
ceive according to his deeds. For himself, he says 
that he has fought a good fight ; he has finished his 
course without losing the faith ; and now he is ready 
to be offered, when, as he fully believes, the time for 
the sacrifice has come. 

Here is a mystery, — that a human being, frail 
and helpless as human beings are, should maintain 
such perfect serenity at such an hour, should be so 
forgetful of himself and so anxious for others ! And 
how will you explain it ? Is it a delusion ? No ; 
for delusions sink and vanish before the stern reality 
of death. Is it enthusiasm ? No ; he is collected 
and firm as ever ; he understands his own feelings : 
he has weighed his words. The reason that he 
stands firm when others tremble is, that a strength 
not his own supports him ; he leans on the Rock of 



READY TO BE OFFERED. 



157 



Ages ; he has light from on high to cheer and guide 
him in the dark valley of the shadow of death. 

Let us endeavour to understand this state of mind. 
It is one that all are concerned to know. For an 
hour not far from any one of us is to determine how 
we shall go to the grave ; — whether we shall have 
this holy confidence, which nothing but a trust in 
Jesus Christ inspires ; or whether we shall approach 
the close of life, insensible, unsustained, having no 
resource but to shut our eyes to all that is before us, 
and to keep our hearts fixed fast on this world, till 
the dream is broken, and we find ourselves in that 
world where we can sleep no longer. 

Undoubtedly, the chief reason of this holy and 
happy confidence was, that he was living no longer 
to this world; he was living "the life of God." He 
had begun a new life from the time when he saw 
the vision of his Master looking down upon him in 
sorrow, not in anger, and asking what he had done 
to deserve such persecution. From that moment his 
views were changed ; his feelings were changed ; his 
whole heart was changed. No longer burning with 
ambition, no longer dazzled by this world's glories, 
his spiritual nature was awakened ; he saw himself 
in a new light : he abhorred himself, and repented 
in dust and ashes. He saw that in those days when 
his countrymen cheered him as the defender of their 
Law, he had been governed, not by conscience, but 
by self-deceiving passion, - — passion which led him 
to trample on the rights of others, and to bring deep 
stains of blood upon his soul. He felt that he was 
14 



158 



READY TO BE OFFERED. 



the chief of sinners. But when he came to the feet 
of Him " that liveth and was dead," when he found 
that, so far from being cast out and scorned, he was 
welcomed, trusted, employed in the service of that 
cross which he had dishonored, it seemed to him as 
if the entire devotion of all his life and all his soul 
to his Master would be too little to atone for the in- 
sults and injuries of former days. A clear, bright 
flame of love to God and man shot upward in his 
heart ; he cared for himself no longer. Days of 
hardship, nights of watching, prisons, chains, dangers 
by land and sea, had no more terrors for him ; and 
when affection urged that he was going too far, he 
tore himself away. " What mean ye to weep, and 
to break my heart?" For the Lord Jesus he was 
willing, not only to be bound, but to die. 

Could such a man fear to be offered when the 
time of his departure was at hand ? O, no ! Death 
had no terrors that could affright the living martyr. 
His only desire was to take the post assigned him in 
life, and there to fight the battles of the cross till the 
Chief of his salvation permitted him to lay down his 
arms. In his breast the world was overcome. See- 
ing what others did not see, governed by influences 
which had nothing to do with this world, sustained 
by a faith in unseen realities which the world knew 
not of, to him it was not death to die. He could 
look on the fires of martyrdom, even if burning for 
him, almost as serenely as a returning wanderer sees 
the warm red light shining from the window of his 
home. 



READT TO BE OFFERED. 



159 



Again : the same change which had destroyed the 
power of the world over him had brought him into 
near communion with his God. From a child of the 
world, wholly bent on its pursuits, wholly enslaved 
by its influences, never looking above it nor beyond 
it, he had become a child of God : not only believ- 
ing that there is a God, but feeling it, rejoicing to 
feel it, always ready to go to him and pour out his 
soul to him in the glad confidence of love. While 
to many God is nothing but a name, while millions 
of thoughts pass over their minds every day, of which 
God is not one, while others have each some human 
beings whom they love and some whom they fear 
more than the Highest, in his soul God was the 
great central thought. All others received light from 
it, like the planets round the sun; no other thought, 
not the whole world, could eclipse it ; to him God 
was all in all. 

Having the profound conviction that God is a 
father, and one whose kindness far exceeds the best 
tenderness of human love, he could go to him with 
filial confidence, to cast his care upon him, to make 
known his wants and sorrows, to revive his spiritual 
affections in that communion where hearts almost 
bursting with agony have found the truth of the 
promise, " Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace 
whose heart is stayed on thee." To him there was 
no such thing as accident or chance ; nothing ever 
happened to him ; every event was appointed and 
assigned, and, as the act of a Father, he not only 
submitted to it, but gave it welcome, knowing that. 



160 



READY TO BE OFFERED. 



however painful, it was meant as a blessing. It was 
a blessing ; how it was a blessing he should after- 
wards know. 

Fully believing that, while much which men bring 
upon themselves is evil, every thing which God 
brings upon them is good, he was willing to leave 
the time, the place, the manner, of his departure to 
God. He knew that each one who leaves the world, 
not destroyed by his own act, not wasted by his 
own sensuality, goes at the very moment which is 
best for him. He knew that God would say whether 
his life should expire in prayer, or gush out in blood ; 
and he was ready to lie down upon the bed, to pine 
in the dungeon, or to shrivel in the flames, to-day, 
or to-morrow, or to wait God's time. To him Death 
was not a spectre, gloomy, unrelenting, striking 
men's hearts, and crowding the graves with dead ; 
to him the act of death was no other than the act of 
God, — of him who cares for us more than we care 
for ourselves. Therefore, though he had a desire to 
go, though he longed, if it might be, to be with his 
Master, he was ready to do his duty in life as long 
as it pleased his God. Being pure in heart, pure 
from selfish passions and desires, he was able to see 
his God. God, though not seen by the living eye, 
was present and visible to his soul. By faith he saw 
the Invisible, and his whole heart was one living, 
burning sacrifice to his God. 

Once more: the secret of his readiness to depart 
was, that things unseen and eternal were realities to 
him. Other men will talk of them ; let their minds 



READY TO BE OFFERED. 



161 



play about them ; say that they ought to awaken 
interest, that they are entitled to profound regard. 
Still they awaken no interest in fact ; they are not 
regarded ; the merest trifle of the day engages the 
attention and influences the conduct more than these 
things, in which man's eternal interests are bound 
up. To him God and eternity were more than emp- 
ty sounds ; they were words of meaning, words of 
power, words which not only fell upon the ear, but 
touched and stirred the heart. When he thought of 
going into eternity, it did not seem like going from 
firm ground into unsubstantial space, uncertainty, 
darkness ; he felt that this world, which rocks, and 
wastes, and changes under us, is not the immortal 
home of the immortal soul. " For we know," he 
says, — not we believe, but "we know," — that if 
our earthly dwelling, this tabernacle of flesh, be dis- 
solved, we have yet a building of God, eternal in 
the heavens. " We are confident, I say, and willing 
rather to be absent from the body, and to be present 
with the Lord." 

This is the great attainment, — to see things as 
they are, — to give most heed and most heart to the 
most important things. This was what enabled him 
to say " our light afflictions"! Light did he call 
them ? Heavy indeed would they have seemed to 
any but him. This was what enabled him to glory 
in sufferings where others sank helpless under them. 
This made heaven so near, that death had no terrors. 
Hence the inspiration of those words, - — memorable 
and glorious so long as the world shall stand, — " I 
14* 



162 



READY TO BE OFFERED. 



am now ready to be offered, and the time of my de- 
parture is at hand. I have finished my course ; I 
have kept the faith ; henceforth there is laid up for 
me a crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the 
righteous Judge, shall give me at that day." 

I have endeavoured to describe the confidence 
which faith in Jesus Christ inspired in one of his 
earliest and greatest disciples. It can inspire the 
same again. It has inspired it in many Christians. 
Sustained by this faith in the Crucified, they have 
maintained a similar confidence ; a similar joy has 
breathed itself in their dying words, and shone in 
the " face as it were an angePs," which told of 
heaven within. 

Such was the confidence of him who has just left 
us for the grave. He died as man ought to die. I 
may speak of his departure, though I may not tell 
you of his virtues. I may not praise the dead. Nor 
is it needed here. That it is not needed, there is 
many a tear to tell. 

ct None knew him, but to love him, 
None named him, but to praise." 

It was the earnest wish of our friend that he 
might meet us here again ; that he might approach 
the table of his Master, and join his prayers with 
ours in a Sabbath sacrifice to the God of love. The 
prayer is answered. Behold ! he is come. Not as 
we wished and prayed ; but he is come. Not with 
his cheerful bearing : not with his smile of kind- 
ness ; not with serene and manly brow ; but borne 



READY TO BE OFFERED. 



163 



by the hands of others, the shadow of death on his 
eyelids, the hand which would have returned a warm 
pressure to yours cold, icy cold, his repose so deep, 
that no sound can reach him but the shout of the 
archangel and the trump of God. Still I say, he is 
come, — come to give you an affectionate warning, 
come to bid you a last farewell. Give him wel- 
come ; for he comes to remind you of that which it 
may be life to remember, of that which it may be 
death to forget. He hath no need of words. To 
your hearts he says, — " Weep not for me, but weep 
for yourselves and for your children." 

I have now a duty to perform. When I saw him 
last, he felt that he was a dying man. He had 
watched a fading flower that stood near him, and he 
felt that its decline was prophetic of his own. Peel- 
ing that he was moving to the grave with a rapidity 
which man had no power to stay, he spoke with the 
sincerity of the dying. For himself, he said, he had 
no fears. He deplored the sins of his past life ; he 
lamented that so much of that heart which belonged 
to God had been given to other things. But he had 
prayed most fervently to be forgiven, through " the 
Lamb of God, that taketh away the sin of the world " ; 
and his prayers were answered ; he had found rest to 
his soul. To the world he had no wish to return ; 
it had lost all its attractions. The only desire he 
had was to go once more to the house of God, to sit 
at the table of his Master, and to meet with friends 
with whom he might improve in spiritual things. 
" How much might be done," he said, " if we only 



164 



READY TO BE OFFERED. 



would!" As to life and death he had no anxiety; 
but it was his earnest prayer, that, if he should re- 
turn to the world, it might be with a different spirit, 
with higher and holier influences than ever before. 
Remember his words, — " How much might be done 
if we only would! " 

Finding that he had no anxiety for himself, I 
asked him if he had none for those whom he was 
leaving, — for the wife, for the children, who were 
inexpressibly dear to him. He said that he had none. 
He placed full confidence in God. He was willing 
to leave them in the hands of his Father and their 
Father, of his God and their God. When he bade 
farewell to his children, seeing that one of them 
was overcome with sorrow, he told her he had often 
left her to go on journeys, and now he must leave 
her once more. It was true that he could not return 
to her, but she might come to him. He trusted she 
would come to him. And thus he took leave of 
them ; but not for ever. He doubted not that they 
would enjoy the protection of the Father of the 
fatherless, and the widow's Friend. "I have been 
young, and now am old ; yet never have I seen the 
righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread. " 

But I found that he had his anxiety, and it was 
all for you, — for those whom he had been used to 
meet in the intercourse of life. For them he was 
anxious that their hearts might turn to God ; that 
religion might be to them a living spirit, and not a 
dead letter. For he feared, — he was oppressed to 
think that some had no more feeling than he once 



READY TO BE OFFERED. 



165 



had of the truths of the Gospel ; that they were in 
the way that seemeth right, though the end of it 
are the ways of death. He would have sent an af- 
fectionate message to you, were it not for his shrink- 
ing fear of display. But it is not needed. He him- 
self is come. There is no speech, no language ; his 
voice is not heard ; and yet he speaks to you from 
the frozen silence of death. Let your hearts listen ; 
it is the last time. 

He sent no message ; his life, he said, had not 
been such as gave him a right to speak. Did not 
you think that his life was virtuous ? Amiable in all 
his feelings, exemplary in all his conduct, did not you 
think that he was always prepared to die ? He 
thought not so. When his heart was turned to God, 
he saw himself differently ; and painfully did he feel, 
that, though man found no fault, God had reason to 
upbraid him ; if man's claims had been answered, 
God's claims were immeasurably greater, and those 
had not been answered. He saw the hollowness of 
that virtue which leaves God and eternity out of 
view ; he knew that, while the hands are full of 
earthly cares, man cannot work out his salvation. 
" I have lain on this bed," he said, "and had deep 
communion with God. But, O this body of sin ! 
it seems too great to be forgiven. But the blood of 
Christ cleanseth from all sin : on that I build my 
hope. In these last few weeks, heaven, 'the Lamb 
before the throne, and saints and angels have seemed 
very near." 

When he seemed, to all but experienced eyes, to 



166 



READY TO BE OFFERED. 



be gaming strength, when his friends were encour- 
aged, and he himself hoped that he might be spared 
a little longer, the prospect was suddenly changed, — 
darkened to us, but not to him. He said then, — u I 
see my spirit must depart, and I lay me down to die, 
forgiving all who have injured me as freely as I hope 
to be forgiven." 

When the closing scene came on, and his frame 
was torn with suffering, the voice that was ever dear- 
est to him said, " O the mortal agony of this hour ! 
but God will support you." He said, " My burden 
is lifted ; God and Jesus Christ do sustain me." His 
last hours were spent in prayer ; and thus, meekly 
relying on the support which never fails, he was per- 
mitted at last to depart in peace. 

Again I say, he is here, — come to warn you 
against trusting to the present world. It can afford 
you nothing, for it has nothing which will stand 
under the shadow of death. Nothing but a living 
faith, nothing but a faith which sees God and eter- 
nity as realities, can support you in that awful hour. 
And now he implores you to live so that you may 
meet him again. Do not say to him, " Farewell for 
ever ! " When he goes to his wintry grave, " enter 
thou into thy chambers, and shut the doors about 
thee." Open your hearts to God. 

Let me ask you now, which is the living, and 
which is the dead. They are not dead to whom 
Jesus is the resurrection and the life. They are not 
dead who are alive for evermore. They whose mor- 
tal hath put on immortality need not your tears. 



READY TO BE OFFERED. 



167 



Why weep for those who are happy in the mansions 
of the blest ? 

The dead are they who are enslaved to the present 
world. " She that liveth in pleasure is dead." He 
that liveth in worldliness is dead. They are the 
ones to mourn for. Bitter tears may be shed for 
them. But sorrow is not for the happy. Tears are 
not for the blest. 



SERMON I V.* 



GROUNDS AND LIMITATIONS OF HUMAN 
RESPONSIBILITY. 

THE LOT IS CAST INTO THE LAP ; BUT THE WHOLE DISPOSING 
THEREOF IS OF THE LORD. Proverbs XvL 33. 

There were cases occasionally in the Old Testa- 
ment history, when the Hebrews were permitted to 
resort to the lot ; as, for example, in dividing the 
promised land among the tribes. The lots were 
thrown into the bosom of one present, who hid them 
in the fold of his garment, from which they were 
afterwards drawn. In this, they considered them- 
selves as leaving it to chance to determine ; but not 
so the sacred writer ; it was Divine Providence which 
determined. "The whole disposing thereof is of 
the Lord" ; there is no such thing as chance. Since, 
then, there is no such power as chance, since it is a 
mistake to say that any thing ever happens, or to 
speak of any thing as accidental, — language which, 
however common, gives wrong impressions of our 

* This discourse was occasioned by a "shocking accident," as it was 
called in the newspapers, which occurred on the Western Railroad, 
December 18, 1840, by which four lives were lost. 



LIMITATIONS OF RESPONSIBILITY. 



169 



condition in this world. — it follows that all things 
which take place must be owing either to God or 
man, are brought about by Divine or human agency. 

We will begin by attempting to define the prov- 
inces of human and Divine agency. Our duty is 
commensurate with our power. We are responsible 
for the moral character of what is done, just so far 
as it depends on ourselves. God does not deal with 
mankind as with other animals. They have action, 
but no moral action : because they have not power 
to foresee the consequences of what they do, nor a 
power to discern between right and wrong. The 
few cases in which they betray fear after having 
done wrong are to be explained by supposing that 
they have associated such actions with suffering, the 
fear of being punished, thus occasioned, leading to 
that manner which is sometimes thought to express 
penitence and shame. But with man it is not so. 
who not only has a moral and a spiritual nature by 
which he can understand his God and his duty, but 
also a power to do or not to do, to choose or to re- 
fuse, which is not given to other created things. 
Within that circle, then, where man has this power 
to will and to do of his own pleasure, is the field of 
human agency. Here man is held responsible ; he 
is bound to look about him and before him, to reflect 
seriously on the motives and consequences of his 
actions, to hold his thoughts, feelings, and actions in 
the light of conscience, that he may see how his 
acting or his neglecting to act will affect the beings 
around him, how it will appear in the sight of God. 
15 



170 LIMITATIONS OF RESPONSIBILITY. 



to whom he must answer, and what bearing it will 
have on his own character and destiny. 

All beyond this province of human responsibility 
is done by the power of God. Since he is every- 
where present, with a never-sleeping providence, 
guiding the operation of all created things, we know 
that every thing, except what he has intrusted man 
with power to do, is done by him. When we speak 
of the strange and mysterious instinct of animals, of 
the sureness and certainty of its operation, — of the 
bird finding its path over untravelled shores and 
oceans, or the beast, when transported to a distance, 
returning straightway to his home, and thus doing 
what transcends the power of man, — we need not 
wonder ; for it is all done by the agency of God. 
It directs and manages all things which man's intel- 
ligence and power cannot reach, and over the actions 
of man himself it exerts a superintending care, never 
interfering with the freedom of his agency, never 
preventing the consequences of his neglect or his 
action, so far as respects the agent himself, but pre- 
venting the injury which his action or neglect might 
occasion to others, and thus bringing good in the 
end out of that chaos and confusion of evil which 
men are constantly doing, so as to make them all 
blessings in the result to the human race. Mean- 
while the individual agent is held fast to his, respon- 
sibility, obliged to eat the fruit of his own doings, 
and suffered, if he will, to abuse his privilege of free- 
dom, which otherwise would not be either a privi- 
lege or freedom, to the injury and ruin of his soul. 



LIMITATIONS OF RESPONSIBILITY. 



171 



This thought of Divine Providence, ever superin- 
tending the great interests of mankind, ever caring 
for his children, is the most consoling and inspiring 
that ever visits the heart, though it cannot give joy- 
to the heart where it is not welcomed. It is delight- 
ful, when you wake at deep midnight, to think of 
Him who watches while you are sleeping, and keeps 
the vast and silent spheres wheeling in their order 
above your guarded head. Still more, to think that 
the spirit of God is over this world's troubled waters, 
on which we are all embarked for immortality, — that 
his eye follows us in these unsounded seas, and that 
when the waves rise or fall they obey his voice of 
mercy, — this thought blends the glory of our moral 
freedom with a sense of our dependence on a Fa- 
ther's power and love, in such a manner as to call 
out the energies, to silence the fears, and to give the 
peace of living action, not of indifference nor of 
death, to the soul. 

Having thus stated and attempted to define the 
provinces of Divine and human agency, I would next 
ask you to consider how our knowledge of them is 
constantly extending. With respect to human agen- 
cy, for example, we are continually opening upon 
new views, which show us that many things which 
are called acts of God come within the sphere of 
our own responsibility, and are in truth our own 
actions, springing from our own doing or our own 
neglect ; and the consequences of them we must 
expect to bear. How often have we seen the poor 
invalid, on his bed of anguish, endeavouring to still 



172 LIMITATIONS OF RESPONSIBILITY. 

his troubled nerves to repose, that he may learn the 
lesson of submission to what he deems the will of 
God, when we cannot but remember his own care- 
less exposure, his own unnatural habit of living, his 
own contemptuous neglect of the beginnings of dis- 
ease, and we say to ourselves, if not to him, that it is 
his own doing which has brought him to the brink of 
an untimely grave ! Many cases there are in which 
we cannot trace home the event to human agency, 
or rather to the men who caused it, while the con- 
nection between the two is clear to the eye of God. 
For example, some unprincipled builder in the hur- 
ried city, for the sake of gain, puts up a house too 
weak to stand. When it falls, and crushes the inno- 
cent beneath it, he may call it the act of Providence 
if he will ; but it was his own, — and he will find 
it darkly recorded against him at the judgment of 
the great day. 

But never has this province of human agency 
been so much extended to human apprehension, as 
in connection with those arts and improvements of 
civil life which have invested man with new pow- 
ers, and given him a mastery over nature which in 
former days he never dreamed of possessing. He 
would as soon have thought of guiding the stars in 
their courses, as of conducting chariots that outstrip 
the winds, vessels which ask no aid from the out- 
ward elements to bear them on their way. This 
same development of power opens new fields of re- 
sponsibility ; for it is enough to make men thought- 
ful when the lives of thousands are at the mercy of 



LIMITATIONS OF RESPONSIBILITY. 173 

one. Where the conscience has not lost all power 
by disuse and inaction, the person to whom the lives 
of others are largely intrusted will feel the great- 
ness of the charge, and the solemnity of his obliga- 
tion. And if the manager of one of these vessels, 
in foolish and desperate rivalship with another, dis- 
regards the danger, and hazards the safety and hap- 
piness of thousands to gratify his own childish pas- 
sion, when the explosion takes place, and the deck 
bleeds with mangled ruins, and one electric shock of 
agony is sent to hearts and habitations more than can 
be numbered, let him not doubt that he shall be ac- 
cused before God as the author of that world of woe. 
Yes, and should they pass safely through the danger, 
no thanks to him ; his guilt is the same in the sight 
of God. So if the proprietors of such a vessel, in 
their thirst of gain, set at naught their obligations, 
and send out hundreds on the deck which there is 
reason to fear may become their funeral pile, the 
conflagration on the midnight sea, the wild cry of 
agony sent over the waters, and the bitter tears of 
unknown and unnumbered mourners, are so many 
witnesses against them. And if they say that they 
did not think of this result, tell them it was their 
crime that they did not think of it, — that they 
thought of nothing but their own gain, when duties 
and dangers should have been first regarded. When 
such things are, no matter how stern and general the 
voice of condemnation ; but do not confound with 
such examples that of those who have no motive of 
interest or passion to expose others to danger, who 
15 * 



174 LIMITATIONS OF RESPONSIBILITY. 

have much to lose and nothing to gain by such 
exposure, who indeed are themselves as much en- 
dangered in life, and more in reputation, than any 
who suffer by them ; for there may be error in judg- 
ment, without guilt, and if they acted according to 
their best judgment under the circumstances, their 
conscience is clear of blood. Where the disaster is 
owing to circumstances which no ordinary prudence 
could foresee, — in a word, where they have done 
their best, — the action is not their own, and the 
responsibility is lifted from their soul. 

But some may ask, " When the province of hu- 
man agency is thus extended, is not the sphere of 
Divine Providence lessened ? Shall we not feel as if 
God had less to do with human affairs, and will it 
not lessen that feeling of dependence on him, which 
ought to be much greater rather than less? " On the 
contrary, the more we feel our own responsibility, 
the more shall we recognize the agency of Heaven 
in all things. For in your own experience you may 
observe the reciprocal action of these two principles : 
those who think most of Heaven, and see the hand 
of Providence in all things, are most alive to their 
own accountability ; and they who feel most deeply 
the magnitude and importance of their duties are 
the readiest to understand how much they depend 
upon their God. So that all these advances in hu- 
man knowledge, all this extension of the bounds of 
human power, carry up the thoughts to Him whose 
inspirations are the fountains of all knowledge, and 
enlarge our conceptions of his providence, which 
intrusts these powers to our hands. 



LIMITATIONS OF RESPONSIBILITY. 



175 



I now come to the subject of our duty in relation 
to this power which God has given us in charge. 
Here I would observe, that 3 from what we know of 
Divine Providence, we may learn how to use and 
improve that human providence which brings us into 
our nearest resemblance to God. When it is said 
that man was made in God's image, and had dominion 
committed to him over other works of God, it must 
be remembered that the image is but imperfect, far 
off, and dim at first, and it must be our own care to 
make the likeness greater than it is in the beginning. 
For this purpose Jesus Christ has made us acquainted 
with the Father in and through himself, and set him 
before us as an example; but so neglected is the 
privilege, that thousands lose all traces of divine 
original in the defacing stain of this world's corrup- 
tions. Still, this is our work and our glory, — to be 
as much as possible like Him who was entirely like 
his Father, and, by cherishing a resemblance to our 
Master, to be transformed into the same image, — 
from effort to effort in this world, from glory to glory 
in another. 

Now what is it we adore in the providence of 
God ? Is it not the vast reach of vision and design 
with which it embraces all considerations bearing on 
its action, — never swayed, as man is, by those which 
are near and pressing, but looking to the last as well 
as the first, the distant as well as the nigh, — never 
swayed by undue partiality or aversion, but always 
steadfastly regarding and pressing on to that which 
is right ? And more than all, is it not the perfect 



176 LIMITATIONS OF RESPONSIBILITY. 



disinterestedness of Divine Providence, the regard to 
the welfare of all, which sends rain and sunshine 
alike on the just and the unjust, the thankless as 
well as the good ? 

Here, then, we see straight and plain before us 
the way to improve our own moral power, — by en- 
deavouring, as much as possible, to make it resemble 
the providence of God. That is, to consider all the 
bearings and consequences of what we do or neglect 
to do, — overlooking selfish inducements, resisting 
temporary influences and clamorous passions, and 
always doing that which under the circumstances, 
so far as we can see them, our deliberate judgment 
approves as the best course we can pursue. We are 
never to count any thing which concerns our duty 
beneath our attention, because it may affect others 
in a way which we cannot foresee ; and if not, it 
will still concern ourselves to do the best we are 
able, and in the best manner we are able, since there 
is a day when our actions, and the character and 
consequences of our actions, will pass before us in 
stern and fearful review. And we must remember 
that we cannot do the best thing in the best way, 
unless we imitate the providence of God in acting 
with regard to the right rather than with regard to 
ourselves, — never suffering our sordid interests, our 
malicious feelings, or our ungoverned passions to 
darken the clearness of our judgment, and turn us 
aside from the course which duty would have us 
pursue. If we do this as far as possible, we shall 
find that it will give us a wise forecast in the con- 



LIMITATIONS OF RESPONSIBILITY. 177 

duct of our lives ; saving us from many an error, 
and saving others from the consequences of our er- 
rors ; and. whether in our daily employments or on 
great and trying occasions, will give us power to 
maintain the bearing of children of God. 

I will, however, detain you no longer with this 
discussion, though all I have said applies to the sub- 
ject which I intended to bring before you ; I mean 
the calamity which lately overcame us like a sum- 
mer cloud, filling every heart with sorrow and 
spreading gloom on every brow. These things are 
painfully familiar in some parts of our country ; but 
so unusual here, that they are more terrible when 
they come. And is it not a subject of gratitude and 
of wonder that a gigantic undertaking has been com- 
pleted, and gigantic powers been put in successful 
action, and that so few in our community can say 
that they have suffered in person, in circumstances, 
or in heart ? 

Was this disaster to be ascribed to Divine or hu- 
man agency ? One or the other must have occa- 
sioned it, for chance is a name for that which has no 
existence. To call it accidental is only saying that 
we cannot determine whether it comes within the 
circle of human responsibility, or whether it should 
be regarded as an act of God. We can only tell 
where to assign it by deciding another question ; and 
that is, whether ordinary foresight could have fore- 
seen and prevented it. If so, man was responsible 
for it ; but otherwise it is to be regarded as an act 
of God. Had any one concerned in it neglected 



178 LIMITATIONS OF RESPONSIBILITY. 

reasonable precautions, encountering danger for the 
sake of gain or display, — had he tampered with 
powers that never had been tested, and made bold 
and rash experiments, doubtful beforehand whether 
they would succeed, — carelessness would have been 
a crime, because caution was a duty, and each one so 
offending would be answerable for that which, with 
common prudence, he might have prevented, as well 
as for that which he has done. But if the calcula- 
tions of science gave them confidence in their power 
to descend the steep with safety, if former experi- 
ence of that power strengthened them in the opinion 
that it could be done without danger, if all the 
danger apprehended was from the effect of gravita- 
tion, and they believed themselves provided with a 
force more than competent to resist it, still more, if 
the frost upon their slippery path unexpectedly coun- 
teracted the effects of their engine and left the vast 
weight helpless on the descending steep, — in a 
word, if man did what could be reasonably expected 
of him to anticipate and avoid all danger, the disas- 
ter came not within the sphere of human responsi- 
bility. Their conscience need not be burdened ; the 
blood of the sufferers will not be required at their 
hands. This, then, is the result : if human pru- 
dence, in its ordinary action, could be expected to 
foresee and prevent a disaster, it is the work of man ; 
otherwise, it must be ascribed to the providence of 
God. 

If the question be asked in reference to the suffer- 
ers, whether it was the act of man or of God, I an- 



LIMITATIONS OF RESPONSIBILITY. 179 



swer at once, it was the act of God. He does not 
abridge our freedom ; he suffers us to do or neglect 
to do, and leaves us to bear the consequences our- 
selves ; but at the same time he takes care that, so 
far as respects others, the wrath or folly, the care- 
lessness or madness, of men shall do nothing more 
than work out the purposes of the Most High. In 
any one of those dark deeds with which our public 
prints are blackened over, the murder was the vol- 
untary act of man ; so far as the murderer was con- 
cerned it was human agency, to be answered for here 
and hereafter as a wilful and deadly sin. But that 
high Providence, which cares for all the living, did 
not suffer the welfare of the murdered to be injuri- 
ously affected by the action of another ; he was per- 
mitted to suffer, because in the book of Providence 
it was written that this was the best time for him to 
die. And so I say with reference to those who have 
so lately fallen : it seems mysterious, indeed, that, 
when their lives were so important, they should have 
been taken from their desolate wives and children. 
How often have we heard it lamented that the 
weight of the ungovernable train did not fall harm- 
lessly into the waters ! But no ; let us remember, 
that from the moment when it burst through all hu- 
man control, and came thundering down the steep, it 
was God's providence that determined where the blow 
should fall. Had it been, as no one believes, the 
most wanton rashness which brought it thus head- 
long, — yes, had it been wilful design which sent it 
down to mangle and destroy, — even then it would 



180 LIMITATIONS OF RESPONSIBILITY. 

be true that He, without whom not a sparrow falls, 
permitted it to crush the innocent, — not because 
they deserved to suffer, not in wrath nor in ven- 
geance, — but for the single reason, that their hour 
was come. The time, the place, and the manner of 
their departure were ordered by the God of love. 

But the question of most importance is, In what 
light are these disasters themselves to be regarded? 
And in respect to human agency they should un- 
doubtedly be used to learn that needful forecast in the 
employment of mighty powers, which nothing but 
experience — I may say sad and sorrowful experi- 
ence — can give. When the evil has taken place, we 
can all see that there was danger. But was this dan- 
ger distinctly predicted by any one before ? Wise 
cautions were given by some who must now rejoice 
that they gave them ; but with a force of more than 
two to one to resist the effect of gravitation, would 
any one have said beforehand that wheels would be 
palsied in their action, and levers lose their foothold, 
and the weight roll helplessly down the steeps which 
it found no difficulty in ascending? Here, then, the 
bounds of human forecast are extended by a fearful 
warning ; and that warning may be the means of sav- 
ing many a life hereafter from a danger which other- 
wise would not have been understood. It is well, 
then, that we are sometimes taught that our power is 
less than we suppose, and our responsibility greater ; 
and the warning is written in blood, because all expe- 
rience must be gained at startling prices, and unless 
the warning is solemn its effect will pass away. 



LIMITATIONS OF RESPONSIBILITY. 181 

Once more, these calamities should impress our 
hearts with an overwhelming sense of the power 
and providence of God. We- should reverse the 
wheels of our enterprise for a moment, and consider 
our relation to the Most High ; for power without 
the sense of responsibility is a fatal gift to man. If 
we see a man of great intellectual power destitute of 
all moral elevation, he seems unnatural ; we cannot 
despise, indeed, but we cannot reverence him; we 
regard him with wonder and pain, And so if a com- 
munity, highly intelligent and highly favored, forget 
the source of power and blessing, they show them- 
selves unworthy of their privilege ; they are in dan- 
ger of losing it : for He who sitteth in the heaven 
may dash them down from that elevation when they 
think themselves triumphantly ascending, and strew 
them in broken and hopeless ruin below. He has 
but to send his lightning, and the iron bands of their 
communication will shrivel like a burning thread, 
the improvements of life will disappear, the rose- 
garden will relapse into a wilderness, and the ancient 
woods and waters will possess their own again. 

In all thy ways, then, acknowledge Him, and He 
will direct thy paths. In the confidence of human 
agency, never forget, that, " except the Lord build 
the house, they labor in vain who build it." In 
every enterprise, in every endeavour, remember that 
it is the first dictate of wisdom to turn unto God. 



16 



SERMON V. 



CHRISTIAN FORBEARANCE. 

THEN CAME PETER TO HIM AND SAID, LORD, HOW OFT SHALL MY 
BROTHER SIN AGAINST ME AND I FORGIVE HIM ? TILL SEVEN 

times ? — Matthew xviii. 21. 

This question, taken in connection with the reply, 
is the more instructive, because it was proposed by 
a person of great generosity of feeling : who was 
ardent, but always ready for reconciliation, impetuous 
to hurry into wrath, but equally swift to repent and 
forgive. Knowing his Master's feelings and princi- 
ples, he evidently thinks that a great effort will be 
required of his followers, and he evidently thinks 
that it would be a great effort to forgive an injury 
seven times repeated. And this is true. Still it is 
not all that the Saviour requires, not all that he 
himself would do. It is plain that he had in his 
mind a measure of the duty of Christian love, car- 
ried as far as he then thought it could be carried. 
He placed his mark on the outmost bounds of what 
he considered the reach of human attainment. The 
farthest flight of human generosity and kindness 
which he could imagine was that of seven times for- 



CHRISTIAN FORBEARANCE. 



183 



giving the seven times repeated wrong. How much 
he must have been astonished at his Master's reply, 
— "I say not unto thee until seven times, but until 
seventy times seven " ! — that is, about five hundred 
times as far as he thought it possible for human 
kindness and generosity to go. 

Now the moral of this short and striking story is 
this. Every one, like the Apostle, has in his own 
mind a measure of Christian love in what he thinks 
is its full extent ; — not always very definite, but still 
there is a sort of boundary in his mind beyond which 
he thinks it cannot be expected to pass. It is his 
mark. It is the point to which he thinks it reason- 
able that the duty should be carried, — or, what is 
the same thing, to which he thinks that he should 
be willing to go. And thus he assumes that the 
mind of God is the same with his own. Instead of 
saying, as St. Paul did, " We have the mind of 
Christ," and consulting that oracle without regard to 
any other, he takes it for granted that his own nat- 
ural feelings are always to be trusted, though they 
were formed and came into his heart he knows not 
when nor how. The Indians, when they can count 
to six, believe that numeration can go no farther ; 
and thus, in morals and religion, we make our own 
attainment the measure of what man can do. One 
is not less unreasonable than the other. For as 
Newton and Laplace extended the power of num- 
bers immeasurably farther than the unenlightened 
could follow, one Christian may have enlarged ideas 
of religious duty, which another, so far from attain- 



184 CHRISTIAN FORBEARANCE. 

ing, is not yet able to understand. The truth is, no 
one knows what he can do. No one is able to fix 
the boundaries of his own power, or, what is the 
same thing, of his obligations which are commen- 
surate with his power. None, save He who knows 
what is in man, can be an authority here ; for that 
man does not know what is in himself is taught us 
by the experience of almost every day. 

But there are some considerations worth regarding, 
which may show us that forgiveness, forbearance, 
and kindness may be carried farther than we now 
think possible, — more than seven times farther than 
we carry them now. To a few of these I will ask 
your attention. 

First. It is certain, that, if our kindness is limited 
and partial, there must be something in us which 
prevents its growing and extending. What is it ? 
There is nothing in our nature which says to our 
generosity or forbearance, " Hitherto shalt thou 
come, and no farther." Therefore it must 'be some- 
thing in our acquired feelings, — in the passions 
which have sprung up in our communication with 
the world. There are some individuals who have 
excited in us feelings of distaste, perhaps aversion, 
which we think it impossible to overcome. Cer- 
tainly this is a disadvantage, and one not likely to 
be overcome without effort and care. It is compar- 
atively easy to keep the garden clear from weeds if 
they are not permitted to grow : but when they have 
once struck their roots deep beneath the surface, it 
is not easy by direct effort to dislodge them. What, 



CHRISTIAN FORBEARANCE. 



185 



then, can be done ? Carefully prevent their rising ; 
cut off every sign of their growth as fast as it ap- 
pears ; and if the leaves are thus suppressed, the 
roots will be sure to die. The same is also to be 
said of the wild growth of unkind feelings in the 
heart. Suppress their manifestations, and the feel- 
ings will perish after a time. That is, if you do it 
in good faith, and with a true desire to get rid of 
those feelings which are the outlaws of the heart. 
The effort which good-breeding makes to appear 
kind is not enough ; but if, from a real principle of 
kindness and self-improvement, you suppress all man- 
ifestations of unkindness, the passions from which 
they spring will perish from the soul. 

Now what I say is this : if we have in our hearts 
any feelings of dislike to others which have gath- 
ered strength by indulgence, we cannot judge how 
far the kindness of one who has destroyed those 
feelings in his heart by suppressing them can go. 
It can go farther than we can go with it ; it can go 
farther than we can imagine now. It is said that 
the patient faithfulness of Chinese industry has ex- 
terminated the roots and seeds of that useless and 
troublesome vegetation in which our fields abound ; 
and the result is, that their agriculture has a richness 
and abundance unknown and unimagined in other 
lands. So must it be with labor applied to the heart. 
This labor is applied at disadvantage while any un- 
kind feeling, cherished and defended, usurps the place 
where better ones might grow. O if the heart were 
free ! if it could once bring itself into that state of 
16* 



186 



CHRISTIAN FORBEARANCE. 



liberty from passion wherewith Christ would make 
it free ! If you say it cannot be, remember that 
nothing was ever yet accomplished by despair. The 
charge, " Love your enemies," contains a duty that 
can be done ; — not, however, by one who intrenches 
himself in his unkind feelings, but by the follower 
of his Master who by patient labor has removed 
every root of bitterness from his heart. 

Again. They who doubt whether obedience to the 
command which enjoins the love of man can be car- 
ried as far as the Saviour would have it go are not 
aware what facility and power are gained by the 
familiar practice of religious virtue. In every thing 
else it is evident to their eyes. They see the ease 
and grace with which mechanical movements and 
physical operations are conducted by those who have 
followed them for years. They wonder at the rapid 
grace with which the artisan accomplishes what 
would be impossible to unskilful hands. Nor is the 
admiration less when we behold the results of intel- 
lectual training, by which calculations which are a 
mystery to the uninitiated are seen through with a 
glance like the eagle's ; by which thoughts are 
arranged and marshalled in the mind at the slightest 
summons, and the orator makes his way through the 
most difficult subject in a path of light, as the ship 
seems to throw fire from its keel in the midnight 
sea. The same command of resources, the same 
readiness, ease, and gracefulness in the use of the 
spiritual powers, is the reward of those, who, as the 
Apostle says, " exercise themselves " in these high 



CHRISTIAN FORBEARANCE. 



187 



endeavours. Like men familiar with mountain paths, 
they move with careless confidence where others 
would think it impossible to tread. 

This is what our Saviour alluded to when he 
encouraged those who took up his burden with the 
hope that they would find it light. He knew, and 
they knew, that it was not light at first ; but each 
succeeding effort lessened the difficulty ; they soon 
welcomed that which at first they shrank from, and 
at last came to love the duty which at first was a 
subject of dread. The conscience, if once diso- 
beyed, — how hard it is to recover our sense of ob- 
ligation ! But if we obey it faithfully, the next 
effort is more easily made ; the difficulty lessens with 
each succeeding endeavour. Thus it is with those 
who determine to forgive every injury, to clear their 
minds of every resentful feeling. It may be hard 
the first time, — but the seventh time it is compar- 
atively easy ; the seventh time, one faithfully dis- 
posed begins to acquire a taste for the duty, and long 
before he reaches the seventieth effort he will enjoy 
the new feelings so intensely, that nothing would per- 
suade him to return to his indifference and hardness 
again. And so with the affections. Who, but those 
who have tasted it, can tell the happiness which 
their familiar exercise bestows ? You may wake the 
sleeper, and tell him what joy it is to breathe the 
fresh air of the morning, and to see the daily resur- 
rection of the sun from its grave. Should you per- 
suade him to go forth, he will wish himself back in 
his slumbers ; but after a few efforts to overcome his 



188 



CHRISTIAN FORBEARANCE. 



first distaste, he will begin to enjoy it as you do, 
and wonder how he could have sacrificed to dulness 
and inaction the best and brightest hours of the day. 
And so with the happiness which springs from re- 
ligious feelings, —no one can understand it till he 
has at least tasted and seen it ; nor can it come to 
him in fulness of joy till those feelings have become 
familiar inmates of the breast. 

In fine, no one can tell what advances may be 
made in kindness and good-will to others by one 
whose object it is to divest himself of selfish feel- 
ings. All men are selfish, no doubt : but there is 
this difference, made by religious principle where it 
exists. Some are earnest to suppress and overcome 
those selfish feelings, while others love to indulge 
them. While the latter talk about resisting them, 
they still indulge them, either from the feeling that 
they are natural and may be innocently indulged, — 
that good-will to others may go far enough without 
going far, — or from reliance on those barren words 
and feelings, which, like sunset-light on windows, 
give the appearance of warmth to the heart, when 
all is cold within. These two classes there are. 
Now our Saviour states the law of the heart ; it can- 
not serve two masters. If its general direction is in 
favor of self-indulgence, love to man has no chance 
there. The banner of love may be kept flying above 
it, but there is nothing of the reality below. On the 
other hand, if a Christian really makes it the effort of 
his life to resist his own selfishness, he will be sur- 
prised himself and he will surprise others by the 



CHRISTIAN FORBEARANCE. 



189 



amount of service which he can render to God and 
man, and still more by the ease, and joy, and grace 
with which it is rendered. 

I have made these suggestions, and many more 
might be added, showing that we ought never to 
pronounce upon the extent of a Christian obligation 
from what we know of our own disposition and 
our own power. It is a common delusion to think 
that duty goes only so far as we now think we can 
go. We may find hereafter, as doubtless the Apos- 
tle did, that we can go seventy times farther. And 
not only so ; we may also find that we can take the 
seventieth step more easily than the seventh, — each 
succeeding effort being less than the former, and 
the way of duty easier to tread, though it spread 
out immeasurably far before us. We must remem- 
ber, that it is not ours to say what duty requires, 
nor what man is expected, or is able, to do. For 
as the measures of length were preserved in the 
dimensions of the stones of the temple, where they 
could be invariably ascertained in future ages as 
long as that building stood, so the measures of 
Christian obligation are preserved, and can be seen, 
in the life and history of our Lord. We have noth- 
ing to do with metes and bounds ; we have only to 
follow him. If we follow him, we cannot wander ; 
and the only way in which we can be sure of going 
far enough in any duty is to follow him faithfully 
to the last, — to follow him till our last step sinks in 
the grave. 



SERMON VI. 



VISION OF GOD'S THRONE. 

AND ? BEHOLD, A THRONE WAS SET IN HEAVEN, AND ONE SAT ON 

the throne. — Revelation iv. 2. 

We can see, even through the medium of a mis- 
taken and unfortunate translation, that there is a 
wonderful richness and magnificence in the Apoca- 
lyptic vision, — particularly in its representation of 
the Most High. Every thing in it is either dazzling 
or shadowy; there is no clear outline, no exactly 
discernible form. In this place it is said that a 
throne was placed in heaven, and One, it is not said 
who, sat on the throne. It is not said who, be- 
cause there is no distinct image before the writer's 
eye ; and though he knows who it must be, his in- 
spiration faints and fears to tell. But the imagina- 
tion of the thoughtful reader is powerfully excited, 
and the effect is, in one who reflects, to turn away 
his contemplation from the visible glories before him 
to those moral perfections, which, in the view of the 
angel, are infinitely more lovely and commanding 
that can be represented by any forms, colors, or ra- 
diance such as delight the eye. And this undoubt- 



VISION" OF GOD ? S THRONE. 



191 



edly was meant to be the effect of every thing grand 
and beautiful in the visible works of God. Our ad- 
miration of them does not answer its purpose, unless 
it aids us to ascend to a purer sense and clearer un- 
derstanding of those divine glories of wisdom, pow- 
er, 'and love, in comparison with which all things 
seen with the eye are but dust and ashes. Now this 
is my purpose in asking your attention to this strange 
and splendid vision, — that we may learn how to as- 
cend through it, and above it, to a higher and nearer 
communion with Him whom no eye hath seen or 
can see, and who, after all the pains and the power 
with which he is thus presented, never becomes to 
us " our Father,*' till he is welcomed and has his 
dwelling in the heart. 

But let us turn to the vision, for I wish that all 
may observe this peculiarity which I have men- 
tioned, — the manner in which it eludes the eye, and 
at the same time fills it with glory. As in the dream 
of Eliphaz, it stands still, but we cannot discern the 
form of it ; while at the same time an image is be- 
fore our eyes. The One who sat upon the throne — 
that is, the glory that surrounds him — resembles the 
jasper and sardine or carnelian ; the former of which 
is of various and dazzling colors, while the latter in 
all its changes retains a resemblance to flesh-color, 
which doubtless has its meaning here, by which it is 
intended that there was something which gave the 
impression of a person and a form in all this surpass- 
ing glory. But it is not here as in the words of the 
modern lyrist : — 



192 



VISION OF GOD'S THRONE. 



" He passed the bounds of flaming space, 
The living throne, the sapphire blaze, 
Where angels tremble as they gaze. 
He saw, and, blasted with excess of light, 
Closed his eyes in endless night." 

For the seer of the Revelation, more in the spirit 
of his religion, represents the fierce brightness as 
softened down into the rainbow, — the sweet sign of 
mercy, — " very beautiful in the brightness thereof, 
compassing the heaven with a glorious circle where 
the hands of the Most High have bended it : and, 
with yet kinder regard for human weakness, shaded 
with the emerald, — the tender green, the color on 
which every eye can dwell undazzled, and with ever 
new delight. Before him spreads out the pavement, 
resembling a crystal sea ; by which is meant the 
upper surface of the firmament, of which the lower, 
with its delicious blue, is over our heads. And God 
is represented as looking down from his throne 
through this transparent ceiling of the universe, hav- 
ing all the sons of men, and all that passes in the 
earth beneath him, at once in full and perfect view. 

Need I say that in this brilliant presentment of 
the heavenly glory we have before us the Christian's 
God ? for while the intense brightness, the uncertain 
form, the lightnings and thunders, and the changing 
rays of fiery light, ail give the impression that it 
is a fearful thing to fall into his hand, the gentle 
rainbow of peace, and the emerald softness in which 
this radiance melts away, show us how Christianity 
has changed this contemplation of the Highest : — 



VISION OF GOD'S THRONE. 



193 



not by any means depriving him of his sterner glo- 
ries, but only softening them to the eye, or rather to 
the heart, in such a manner that we can bear the 
sight which was impossible before. For you remem- 
ber that the Hebrews at Sinai entreated that the 
word might never be spoken to them again, though 
it was a word of favor and mercy. Their great lead- 
er even quaked and trembled to feel himself in pres- 
ence of his God, while the humblest follower of 
Jesus may come boldly into that same presence, with 
sweet confidence in the place of shivering dread. 
Surely no emblematical representation can be imag- 
ined which should set before us with more beauty 
and power what the Savour has done to remove the 
terrors of the Almighty, and to turn the hearts of his 
children to their kind and gracious God. 

Again : the heavenly beings who are seen in this 
vision, surrounding and sustaining the throne of the 
Most High, are presented in such a manner as to give 
us the strongest impression of angelical excellence 
and glory. And let it be observed, that it is only an 
impression which the seer intends to give, — not a 
definite and exact description. There is no clear 
outline ; on the contrary, it is implied throughout 
that they cannot be represented with precision to 
human view. This is intimated in the name which 
he gives them ; they are called living ones, or beings r 
— a general and purposely undefined expression, 
which our translators have degraded, profaned I 
might almost say, into the word " beasts," a transla- 
tion of the original term which is strangely, painfully 
17 



194 



VISION OF GOD'S THRONE. 



untrue. Nor can it be accounted for except from 
what the Apostle says of their expression. So far 
as they are bodied forth, they are graceful and ra- 
diant forms, with wings to represent the lightness 
and rapidity with which they move in the service of 
their God. But he says that one had the expression 
of strength and majesty, such as is seen in the lion ; 
another, of patient faithfulness, of which the ox is 
the sign ; another had the look of human intelli- 
gence, indicating his sympathy with mankind : while 
yet another had that determined gaze with which 
the eagle fronts the sun. As an emblem of the 
lustre that surrounds them, it is said that they were 
full of eyes ; and this word, as the Hebrew scholar 
knows, is applied not only to the organ of sight, but 
to the bright sparkling point in the precious stone 
from which its flashes of colored light stream forth, 
giving an idea of the animated grace and airy free- 
dom of motion by which this radiance, various and 
ever changing, starts out with each movement to the 
gazer's view. These "beings," as he calls them, — 
for he knows not what else to call them, since they 
are more than human, yet not quite divine, — are 
not described as angels, because the angels are those 
who are sent to accomplish the purposes and perform 
the orders of their God ; while these are represented 
as attendant spirits, always near his throne, always 
rejoicing in the brightness of his countenance, always 
rendering heartfelt adoration ; for it is said, " They 
rest not day and night, saying, Holy, holy, holy, 
Lord God Almighty, which was, and is, and is to 
come." 



VISION OF GOD'S THRONE. 



195 



Undefined as this description of these heavenly 
beings is and must be, nothing could give us a finer 
impression of those higher orders of existence, for 
such undoubtedly there are, which have not needed 
to come into this lower world and to have their re- 
ligious character formed as ours must be, in conflict 
with the sins and sorrows of the present state. The 
taste and imagination of some great artists have dis- 
cerned what our translators of the Scripture failed to 
see ; and they have represented these heavenly beings 
with many of the traits of humanity, but none of 
heaven, — with feminine delicacy and manly strength 
and freedom, — with the grace of youth in their 
forms, but the wisdom of age upon their thought- 
ful brows, — with an expression of thoughtful sad- 
ness when their mission brings them into the world 
to witness its wretchedness and corruption, but joy- 
ful adoration, unspeakable and full of glory, when 
their eye turns upward to heaven and to God. Now 
it is true that there may be a taste of this kind, and 
power to represent these things vividly, where there 
is no true religious feeling ; but it is also true, that 
something is gained to true religious feeling by sur- 
rounding all sacred subjects with images of beauty 
and peace, by sweet and holy associations. For 
there is a natural alliance between that which is 
lovely, and that which is true and heavenly ; and it 
is one of the evils of this strange and sorrowful 
world, that things unworthy are disguised in raiment 
of light, while religion itself is too often profaned 
by a sincere, but most unfit, union with violence, 



196 



VISION OF GOD J S THRONE. 



narrowness, and bitter feelings, which bring it down 
to the very dust. 

But we must look through the visible image to 
what it represents and implies, which is, that the 
most exalted characters and powers find a subject 
of never-ceasing interest in the contemplation of 
God. They are never weary of adoration. By day. 
and all the day, it is their delight to engage in it. 
and there is no night nor slumber there. But let no 
one take the impression, that life in heaven is spent 
in offering verbal praise. It is true that the mouth 
speaks from the overflow of the heart, and if the 
affections are interested they will inspire the tongue ; 
but it is rather the language of the life which is here 
intended. The meaning is, that the various pur- 
suits of heaven — various and extended as they 
must be far beyond the pursuits of this narrow and 
sensual world — are of such a kind as to make man 
better as well as happier, to elevate and refine his 
devotion, to open his mind with a larger understand- 
ing of divine excellence, and to fill his heart with 
purer and holier love, thus showing that the wor- 
ship of the soul, which is the duty of the mortal, is 
the joy of the immortal ; and that in the same pro- 
portion as spiritual beings, whether human or heav- 
enly, are higher exalted, the more do they delight to 
pour themselves out in grateful and adoring praise. 

But the part of this wondrous vision which is of 
nearest interest to ourselves is yet to come. Around 
the great central throne were other thrones, humbler, 
and yet highly exalted, and on these were human 



VISION OF GOD'S THRONE. 



197 



forms, — persons who were translated to these high 
places for the faithful service which they had render- 
ed when in life below. " Elders' 7 they are called; 
but the name has reference to maturity of character 
rather than length of days ; for in the estimation of 
heaven, u honorable age is not that which standeth 
in length of time, nor is measured by number of 
years; but wisdom is the gray hair unto men, and 
an unstained life is old age." They who left the 
world in youth, and they who died infirm with 
years, are alike embraced in that name, and placed 
equally near to their common Father. They were 
dressed in white robes, and there were golden crowns 
upon their heads ; some of them had harps in their 
hands, and others golden censers, from which fragrant 
clouds of incense were rolling upward. And when 
they saw the Son of God, to whom they were indebt- 
ed for heaven, they sang the new song, — " Thou 
art worthy, for thou wast slain and hast redeemed us 
by thy blood out of every kindred, and tongue, and 
people, and nation, and hast made us kings and 
priests to God." Their adoration rises yet higher 
to the great Source of all blessing, for as often as 
those mysterious " beings " give glory, honor, and 
thanks to Him upon the throne, who liveth for ever 
and ever, the elders cast down their crowns before 
him, and when the anthem is sung by all the bright 
armies above, — " Blessing, and honor, and glory, and 
power to Him that sitteth upon the throne and to 
the Lamb," — the elders fall down and worship Him 
that liveth for ever and ever. 
17 * 



198 



VISION OF GOD'S THRONE. 



But, amidst all this magnificence of description, we 
must not forget that this is but the outward sign, 
the visible presentment, of a spiritual reality far 
greater and more inspiring to those who are able to 
understand it. For these elders, as I said, are human 
spirits, — whether in youth or age, in wealth or 
want, in humility or greatness, on earth, — who were 
eminently faithful while they lived, and therefore are 
welcomed in heaven when they die. Their crowns 
are but the emblems of that eminence which their 
excellence gives them in that world where — O, how 
unlike this present world ! — all things are seen as 
they are, *and where it is seen and confessed that 
they who have rendered most useful service to oth- 
ers, and held fast their confidence in God, are the 
only true sovereigns of the race of man. For while 
all other influence declines, and all other glory grows 
pale as stars at sunrise, their power over others ex- 
tends, and their names become more illustrious, as 
ages pass away. Did not our Saviour say to his fol- 
lowers, that they should sit on thrones preeminent 
among the tribes ? And so it is. What other 
Hebrew names are now in power? what Hebrew 
spirit exerts the least influence on any living heart ? 
— while these men, humble as they were when liv- 
ing, are now set as stars in the firmament, brightest 
among the sons of light, and their influence as 
teachers of heavenly truth and apostles of their 
Master is deeply felt in every Christian land, in 
every dwelling, and almost every heart. 

There is meaning, too, in the incense which rolls 



VISION OF GOD'S THRONE. 



199 



upward from their censers, — " phials," as our trans- 
lators have strangely and improperly called them, — 
and also in the golden harps which they bear. The 
former is a sign of acceptable devotion. It repre- 
sents, we are told, the prayers of the holy ; and it 
assures us, that even in the sacred presence, in the 
midst of the cherubim and seraphim, these humble 
prayers of human spirits shall be heard, — the pale, 
faltering lips of the mourner on earth shall find audi- 
ence as soon as the angel's burning tongue. And 
the white raiment of the elders, — what is it but the 
illustration which our Saviour himself employed, 
when he represented the religious character as a 
wedding garment ? that is, as the appropriate dress 
of the festival, signifying that he who put it on, or 
became holy, was for the first time to taste the true 
enjoyment, not only of the hope of heaven, but 
of the blessings which surround him in the earth 
below. 

The harps which they bear, — they too have their 
meaning. They are the sign, not only of worship, 
but of that harmony of the soul, that perfect free- 
dom from all discordant action, which forms so large 
a part of the happiness of the blest. We know how 
it is with the living ; we see that there is something 
harsh and grating in the elements within them ; and 
as long as it is so, there never can be peace. There 
is some unkind feeling to others, some cherished 
worldliness, some sinful self-indulgence, which is 
enough to destroy all the grace and harmony of their 
spirits within them, throwing darkness over all the 



200 



VISION OF GOD J S THRONE. 



blessings of this world, and darkening the prospect 
of the other. Indeed, all of us know enough of this 
to appreciate the joy which must come from the full, 
free, and harmonious exercise of all the powers with- 
in us in some effort worthy to engage them ; — how 
it silences the passions, how it spreads calmness over 
the troubled waters, giving us power to conceive 
that peace which passeth understanding, and which 
God reserves for the blessed in heaven. 

And now the question arises, — Can we take in 
the meaning of this vision ? Is there any thing 
within us by which we can understand the glory of 
things not seen with the eye, such as truth, holiness, 
and love ? or do we give all our attention to the out- 
ward splendor of this description, having no heart to 
feel the superior beauty and greatness of spiritual 
things ? Does generous action affect us like some 
fine object in nature ? Do our hearts, which grow 
warm in the presence of fine scenery, equally kindle 
when we look on excellent and lovely deeds ? Have 
we never learned to regard a high soul with the 
same feeling of sublimity which the mountain, the 
ocean, or the broad heaven awakens ? When we 
look over the human prospect that surrounds us, with 
its heights of joy and depressions of sorrow, does it 
not awaken interest, — yes, and a deeper interest 
than that inspired by the rich landscape spreading 
out beneath our view ? For this is the difference 
between those who are spiritual and those who are 
not. The spiritual mind is touched, affected, and 
impressed by things which are not visible to the eye. 



VISION OF GOD'S THRONE. 



201 



It finds more inspiring beauty and attraction in the 
higher traits of conduct, character, and life, than in 
the greatest and loveliest of visible things ; and 
therefore it turns with enthusiasm to the life and 
spirit of the Saviour, as the pencil of inspiration 
has painted them : and through him who was the 
image of his Father, it looks up with joy unspeak- 
able, with a heart full of glory, to its awful and yet 
gracious God. Such is the mind which prepares for 
the enjoyment of heaven. For all these visible 
things set before us in the vision cannot endure ; 
they are perishable and fleeting ; crowns, and harps, 
and jewels shall soon blend with common dust. 
The only enduring crown of immortality is the 
smile and favor of the Most High ; the harp of 
heaven is the harmony of a soul at peace with itself, 
with others, and with God ; while the jewels which 
never lose their lustre are those virtues and affec- 
tions which are always rich and glorious even here, 
and they are the heavenly treasure which death can- 
not take away. 



SERMON VII.* 



THE PEACE OF THE SOUL. 

LORD, NOW LETTEST THOU THY SERVANT DEPART IN PEACE.— 

Luke ii. 29. 

This beautiful expression of grateful readiness to 
die came from the lips and from the heart of an 
aged man, who had waited through a long life in 
the hope of the Messiah's coming. When the Son 
of God was come, and he held the infant Saviour 
in his arms, he felt that he had nothing more to live 
for, and whenever it pleased God to call him away 
he was willing, perhaps more than willing, to go. 
And the reason of this cheerful self-surrender was, 
that the wants of his soul were satisfied. Through 
his whole life he had felt a want, — a conscious 
want within him, which nothing could ever supply, 
till the sight of the Saviour — of him whom proph- 
ets and kings desired in vain to see— shone upon 
his late evening of life, and gave the peace desired to 
his soul. 

In this we have an image of humanity wherever it 



* A funeral discourse on a lady whose death-bed experiences had 
been peculiarly affecting and satisfactory. 



THE PEACE OF THE SOUL. 



203 



is found ; — " As in water face answereth to face, so 
the heart of man to man."' In every human being 
there is a want which nothing in this world can sup- 
ply. Riches, comforts, luxuries, or, if his taste rises 
higher, intellectual resources and enjoyments, are 
tried in vain. He enjoys them, and yet, in the midst 
of his pleasure, there is the same conscious want, 
troubling him somewhat in his prosperity, but lying 
heavy upon his heart in dark and lonely hours. 
Those who are least in the habit of attending to 
what passes within themselves, — even they are con- 
scious of an uneasiness, an unsatisfied yearning for 
something better. The instrumentality of outward 
blessings, on which they relied for satisfaction, has 
not answered the purpose. You can see in the ex- 
pression of their face, if they do not say it in so 
many words, that something is not right ; there is 
still a want, and this want is a want of the soul. 

What will satisfy this want ? What does the soul 
crave ? It is not pleasure : it is not that happiness 
which is generally desired, and which appropriates 
the name ; what mankind call pleasure comes only 
from sources within this world. The soul wants 
something that is unchanging ; and this is not to be 
found in a perpetually changing world. The soul 
wants rest ; and this is not to be found in a restless 
world. God, who is himself a spirit, knows what 
the spirit needs and has provided for it ; — peace, as 
inspiration calls it with its usual power of expres- 
sion, which is not quite the same with happiness, 
for it is higher, nor by any means the same with 



204 



THE PEACE OF THE SOUL. 



pleasure, because it is steady and lasting. It has its 
sources far in the highlands, like the great river of 
Egypt, where no human eye hath seen its fountains, 
and thence comes down in its rejoicing fulness to 
revive and bless the sons of men. 

What the soul wants is peace : — peace with our- 
selves, peace with others, and peace with God. Nei- 
ther of these can it have in truth and reality, with- 
out having the others also. No man who is not at 
peace with himself is ever at peace with others ; for 
it is not so much their affronts and injuries, but 
something within himself, which wakes his hatred 
and revenge. No one who is not entirely, heartily 
at peace with others can ever be at peace with God. 
If he believes that he is, he holds a delusion and 
falsehood to his heart. This peace is what we need 
for this life, in order to live well and happily here. 
Without it, we cannot be prepared to go into eter- 
nity ; for to die in peace is the blessing which every 
heart desires, and would desire still more fervently, 
if it saw through the world into its depths of solemn 
meaning, 

But to be at peace with ourselves, — is that so un- 
usual ? Indeed it is. Self-content, self-satisfaction, 
abounds ; but what I mean is, to be at peace with 
the conscience after the heart and life have passed 
often before it in stern and sincere review. The 
conscience seldom speaks loud ; no man in the ordi- 
nary course of life is obliged to hear it : he has the 
power to shut his heart against it, if he wills. And 
when he does so. it will stand apart in silent sorrow. 



THE PEACE OF THE SOUL. 



205 



like a friend who would fain give him warning, but 
feels that it is useless, and therefore looks sadly upon 
the self-destroying way in which he goes. To be 
at peace with conscience means to be at peace with 
an active and awakened conscience ; and no man 
ever secures this blessing till he has courage to be 
alone with it, to ask and hear what it has to say. and 
then regards its gentle intimations as so many com- 
mands of God. Do you ever look over the relations 
in which you stand, to know whether you discharge 
their obligations or not ? Do you ever examine your 
own sense of duty, to know whether it is living and 
strong within you ? Do you seriously endeavour to 
know what your conscience thinks of the life you 
are leading ? If not, you may be self-satisfied, — 
alas for you if you are ! — but at peace with your- 
self you cannot be. You have yet, like the prod- 
igal, to come to yourself, before you can be ready to 
depart in peace. 

To be at peace with others. It may not be easy 
in this world : for we receive some neglects and in- 
juries at times, and Ave imagine a thousand more. 
The passions of others come in conflict with our 
passions, and we resent as a personal insult their do- 
ing what we should do in their stead. Besides, 
merely to refrain from alienation is not to be at peace 
with them. We must be in full harmony ; our 
hearts must be in living sympathy with theirs ; and 
any selfishness, indifference, or pride, which prevents 
this union of interest and feeling, is inconsistent with 
the spirit of our Master. Till these are suppressed. 
18 



206 



THE PEACE OF THE SOUL. 



and supplied by better affections, there is no peace 
with our fellow-men. 

And to be at peace with God. Do we not know 
that our Saviour came for this purpose, — to recon- 
cile us to him, to his dispensations, and his law ? — 
to make us one with himself, and therefore one 
with the Father, so that, when able to discern the 
indications of his providence, we shall say, whether 
they bring us joy or sorrow, " Father, thy will be 
done " ? Not that we shall never suffer. It is neces- 
sary that we should suffer ; it is good for us to suffer. 
No easy path can lead us upward ; in the midst of 
suffering, under the wearing labor which duty and 
submission require, we find the truth of the prom- 
ise, " I will give you rest." Peace we may have. 
We must not ask for joy ; joy is the wick of candle 
soon burnt out, while peace is the serene and never- 
setting star. And this peace is for him who stands 
ready to leave the world in harmony with his own 
conscience, in friendship and full sympathy with 
others, and in union of purpose and spirit with his 
Saviour and his God. 

I am now to remind you of a peaceful departure 
of one of our number, who has just left us for the 
unseen world. Though her living form cannot be 
present here, her living spirit may ; her memory and 
example may ; and would that I had power to bring 
them before your hearts with the same lifelike 
impression which they have made and left in my 
own ! 

Her conversion to God was sudden. The act of 



THE PEACE OF THE SOUL. 



207 



self-surrender was made at once ; after it she seemed 
to live for God and duty alone. Bat do not under- 
stand me as saying that nothing went before it, that 
there was no preparation made or needed for that 
effort of self-sacrifice to God. O, no ! There were 
many hours of thoughtfulness ; there were prayers 
which the world did not hear ; there was a deep in- 
terest in the word of truth before she felt its power. 
Was it indifference which brought her in pain and 
sickness to this house, when many of the firm and 
strong, through fear of the frowning elements of na- 
ture, were kept away ? There is a path, — a straight 
and narrow path, — - in which we must travel up to 
this great attainment. It could only have been by 
cherishing religious impressions, by regarding it as a 
matter of life and death, by exercising herself in obe- 
dience to conscience and to God, that she gained 
the strength to give her heart with such entire unre- 
serve, such affectionate self-devotion, to her Saviour 
and her God. 

I say, to her Saviour and her God. She found 
the truth of the saying, that he and his Father are 
one, and whoever looks on him is looking on the 
Father ; — a truth which, mechanically stated, may 
lead into error, but which cannot be misunderstood 
by the devoted and reverential heart. For as when 
we look into the reflecting telescope we see only the 
image, but say that we are looking at the sun itself, 
so it is only through Jesus Christ that we arrive at 
any understanding of the Father, — only through 
him that the Unseen and Unapproachable is brought 



208 



THE PEACE OF THE SOUL. 



within the reach of mortal view. Nothing could 
be deeper than her sense of gratitude to Him who 
died for her ; it was through him that she hoped for 
the forgiveness of her sins. She found in herself, 
as all true Christians find, that her growing interest 
in the Saviour passed upward, by easy and uncon- 
scious transition, to his Father; and as her heart 
opened to her Father, she delighted more and more 
in the bright image and divine presentment of his 
love. 

When her heart was thus turned to her heavenly 
Father, in thorough sympathy with his holy will 
and fond reliance on his mercy, she was at peace 
with herself. Not that she was insensible to her un- 
worthiness. She felt — as erring man should feel 
— deep self-abasement for her sins, and wonder and 
adoration of his forgiving love. In former days, to 
her, as to all the rest of us, there had been some- 
thing wanting ; but after she arose and went to her 
Father, the dissatisfied feeling, the uneasy desire, 
which is found in so many, passed away for ever 
from her heart. Her very countenance was changed. 
The light and the love shone bright from within ; 
no one came near her without feeling that a genial 
and reviving influence was there ; the beauty of ho- 
liness was in the expression of her features ; — for 
this, when all other beauty is a faded flower, can 
still remain, an unwithering crown upon the brow. 
What a persuasive charm there is in this unbroken 
serenity! Who would not pray for this warm- 
hearted glow which survives in the very face of 



THE PEACE OF THE SOUL. 



209 



death ? It is like the sunny place which we some- 
times find in the dead of winter, in the bosom of 
the evergreen wood. The verdure is bright, and 
the spring is cheerfully flowing on the edge of the 
far-spreading snow ; and the redbreast lingers there, 
in fearless confidence, when all its brethren are fled. 

She was also at peace with others. I do not mean 
simply that she forgave those who had injured her, 
for the dying have seldom much memory for wrongs ; 
it is not easy to be unforgiving, when we are made 
to feel how much we need to be forgiven. More 
than this. She felt and manifested an affectionate 
interest in all, — loving her friends better than ever, 
but feeling that the heart is for the many as well as 
the few. She earnestly desired to lead them to the 
fountains of living waters, where she had relieved 
the thirst of her soul ; still, there was no forcing the 
subject upon them, but a delicacy and judgment, 
united with fervor, showing how well sympathy un- 
derstands the way to the heart. When her friends 
came to visit her, she did not think it necessary to 
change the religious subject on which she was con- 
versing, nor to suppress the voice of prayer. With 
that refinement which true religion inspires, she 
made them welcome, not only to her chamber, but 
to those subjects of interest in which all have equal 
concern, — taking for granted, that, if they were 
friends to her, they were not strangers to her Father 
and their Father, to her God and their God. Thus 
when she lay, to all appearance, helpless and power- 
less, she was in truth doing much in the service of 
18* 



210 



THE PEACE OF THE SOUL. 



her Master; and it cannot be that any whom she 
was so affectionately desirous to impress will coldly 
forget the lessons which they learned at her dying 
bed. If so, she died in vain for them ; nor is there 
hope that those who suffer themselves to forget these 
impressions will ever find words of power to touch 
their hearts again. 

But, what is more than all beside, she was at peace 
with God, — entirely ready to accept the condition 
of existence which he assigned her ; and though it 
cast her down from envied prosperity into the gloom 
of a sick-chamber and the weariness of a sick-bed. 
from which she knew there was no release but the 
grave, she never for a moment doubted that his will 
was love. She knew that her suffering came from 
her best and kindest Friend. Assured of his tender 
sympathy, she found relief in communion with him. 
She feared not to be alone with her Father. It was 
the familiar dictate of her heart to pour out her feel- 
ings in prayer ; and in those later stages of disease, 
when the powers of the mind, like the weak hands, 
could not retain in their grasp the things they en- 
deavoured to hold, her spirit would return from its 
wanderings to listen to the voice which spoke to her 
of heaven and of God. 

I have seen genuine religious feeling in various 
forms and trials ; but seldom have I seen it on the 
death-bed so healthy and unexcited, at once so fer- 
vent and so self-possessed. Her manifestations of 
feeling carried with them the conviction, that they 
were severely true. Sometimes you listen almost 



THE PEACE OF THE SOUL. 



211 



with sadness to the expressions of the dying, doubt- 
ing if they know themselves, — doubting whether, if 
their days were prolonged, the life would make good 
the words. But here there was something which 
inspired confidence that the feeling was not only 
sincere for the moment, but strong and sure, - — a flame 
which, once kindled, would no more go down. The 
truth must have been, that there was a strength and 
depth of feeling in her heart, to which she herself 
and others were strangers, which had not been seen 
in its extent, because never drawn out in full meas- 
ure before. When she became a child of God, these 
powers, which before had slumbered, rushed forth 
into their appropriate field of action, rejoicing like 
the strong man to run a race, exulting like the wan- 
derers, who, after long and distant wayfaring, have 
reached their own, their native land. 

It was in the last hour of her life that I conversed 
with her of the things which belonged to her peace. 
She had some fear of the death-struggle ; but the 
words, " Let not your heart be troubled," seemed as 
if addressed to her, and she dismissed every shadow 
of dread. And how needless those fears would have 
been ! — for in the closing moments there was neither 
a struggle nor a sigh. And then she lay with her 
cheek gently pillowed on her right hand, and the left 
as if unconsciously playing with the ribbon on her 
breast, — the very image of sweet and sacred repose. 
" He giveth his beloved sleep," was the thought 
which it suggested to the heart. But that expres- 
sion, — that mysterious, that almost divine expres- 



212 



THE PEACE OF THE SOUL. 



sion of wonder and delight, which lingers like a glory 
on the face in the first hours of death, — who can 
explain its unsearchable depth of meaning ? It is 
no living expression ; it was not there before ; and it 
is as far removed as possible from the cold, stern look 
of death. I have seen it more than once in those 
who died in peace ; but whence it comes, and what 
is its meaning, no human power can tell. It is said, 
that, when the arm is severed, the sensation in it is 
felt after the separation ; and so it may be, that, when 
the parting soul flies, and the glories of heaven are 
bursting on its transported view, it is the lingering 
sympathy of the frame with its lost associate which 
lights up the features, — making the face, as it were, 
the face of an angel, and giving the clearest revela- 
tion of heaven we can have in the world below. 
But conjecture is vain. We know not what it is. 
But it is kind, it is happy, 

" And I do ponder with most strange delight 
On the calm slumbers of the dead man's night." 

I have dwelt at unusual length on this example 
of conversion, because it seemed to me so genuine, 
thorough, and true. How unlike the repentance of 
many, which needs to be repented of ! After they 
have professed their self-consecration to God, they 
are not at peace with themselves ; they go restlessly 
round, to have their religious character confirmed to 
themselves by the authority of others, because they 
have not the witnessing spirit within. Nor are they 
at peace with others ; they have simply baptized 



THE PEACE OF THE SOUL. 



213 



their own passions with a sacred name, and hence 
are emboldened to indulge them more freely than 
ever, — having nothing and manifesting nothing of 
the Saviour's spirit of love. Nor are they recon- 
ciled to the dispensations nor the will of their heav- 
enly Father. They are looking forward to a world 
which has no existence, — where they shall be able 
to look down and trample on those whom they con- 
sider their enemies now, and where they shall see 
those who have enjoyed their good things deprived 
of them all, that they may possess an unworthy tri- 
umph. Such is not the conversion of the Chris- 
tian ; such was not the effect of religion in her. 
Serene composure in herself, affectionate earnestness 
for the religious improvement of others, calm re- 
liance upon God; were the elements of her religious 
life, and they w r ere also the testimony that the 
change was true. 

There will be those who will say, that it is com- 
paratively easy to maintain the Christian spirit in 
the retirement of the sick-chamber, where the cares 
and passions of the world do not enter, where affec- 
tionate attention, patient and forbearing kindness, 
and the light step that moves unheard about the bed, 
are influences all favorable to peace within. And 
there is a measure of truth in this. But we ascribe 
to outward circumstances more than is in them. Are 
not these advantages more than balanced by other 
things within ? Must not the exhaustion of disease, 
the weariness of unchanging rest, the irritability of 
the nerves, and the sympathy of the spirit with the 



214 



THE PEACE OF THE SOUL. 



failing strength, — must not all these be unfavorable 
in the extreme to patient self-possession ? The rem- 
edies which are necessary to give relief and rest, as 
every one knows who has tried them, though they 
may favor strong excitement of feeling, have no 
tendency to produce a calm and settled peace. 
When I see an exulting and triumphant state of 
mind in the consumptive, I do not wonder ; it is 
comparatively easy to create and to sustain ; but a 
serene and collected peace of mind is less usual. It 
is as seldom found as these spring-like days in the 
midst of the wintry chill. 

Some will say that they envy her such a depart- 
ure. Why should they envy that which is within 
their reach ? God has given the same blessing to 
them ; — indeed, they may enjoy it longer, for surely 
the living are better able than the dying to serve 
God and prepare for heaven, if they will. Yes, if 
they will. And if the heart and the will are want- 
ing now, do not trust that death, when it comes, will 
supply them ; it is more apt to destroy than to awa- 
ken the energy and strength ; the warmth of the 
heart is often quenched by the cold death-shade 
which falls upon the dying. Now is the accepted 
time. Then let not this day's sun go down upon 
your impenitent heart. From this moment " pre- 
pare to meet your God," that, whether to live or to 
die, you may be at peace. " Thou wilt keep him in 
perfect peace whose mind is stayed on thee ; because 
he trusteth in thee." 



SERMON 



VIII. 



CHRISTIAN SINCERITY NOT LIKELY TO GIVE 
OFFENCE. 

THAT YE MAY BE SINCERE, AND WITHOUT OFFENCE, TILL THE DAY 

of christ. — Philippians i. 10. 

It is possible, then, to be sincere, and at the same 
time inoffensive ; or. to speak more in the spirit of 
our religion, it is our duty to be open-hearted in our 
intercourse with others, and at the same time to for- 
bear giving them offence and provocation. There is 
a common impression, that these two things are in- 
consistent with each other. Those who undertake 
to be sincere know no other way to go about it than 
to say or do something impudent to others, and those 
who are desirous to keep the peace with others 
sometimes feel as if, in order to do it, they must sup- 
press their own sentiments and convictions. Now 
in this there must be some radical mistake. Inspi- 
ration connects sincerity with inoffensiveness. not as 
if it were a forced and unnatural union, but as if 
they were sister virtues. So indeed they are ; and 
what God hath joined together let no man put asun- 
der, — neither in his conduct nor in his heart. 



216 



CHRISTIAN SINCERITY. 



The statutes of God have their limitations : " hith- 
erto shalt thou come, and no farther." is written upon 
each duty : not that a duty can be carried too far. — 
but there is such a thing as excess ; and when one 
runs into excess in any thing, he runs out of the 
duty. He is not, as he fondly believes, more virtu- 
ous than others ; on the contrary, the moment he 
ran into excess, he stepped over and out of the limits 
of his duty. Suppose you speak freely to another 
or of another : keep within the bounds of exact 
truth, and you are performing a duty; but every 
word beyond the truth is a lie. Thus it is that 
many, in their earnest and excessive statement of the 
truth, run over it into falsehood ; as he who runs 
furiously up to the river's brink is forced over it into 
the waters by the violence with which he moves. 
In this way many of the best Christian virtues, by 
excess, are made ridiculous and contemptible in the 
sight of men. Prudence becomes avaricious mean- 
ness ; tenderness degenerates into pitiful weakness ; 
charity sinks into carelessness of truth and the right : 
justice hardens into cold-hearted and selfish exaction. 
And by the same process, sincerity becomes coarse 
impertinence, and, like swine in flower-gardens, tram- 
ples with happy indifference upon the feelings of 
others. It is curious, and at the same time fearful, 
to see how easy it is to be offensive by way of being 
sincere, and to applaud ourselves for our virtues when 
we are far gone in the opposite sins. 

This whole subject is apt to be confused in the 
general mind. There are some who wholly misun- 



CHRISTIAN SINCERITY. 



217 



derstand it, — some who cannot conceive of being 
H sincere and without offence," as their Master was 
and requires his followers to be. " What," say they, 
" must we suppress our feelings towards others ? If 
we think hardly, even harshly, of them, must we not 
let them know it ? Would it not be meanness and 
deception to leave them under the impression that 
we care for them when we do not ? It is true our 
sincerity will give offence and cause alienation ; but 
is it not more honorable, is it not more Christian, to 
be true than to be inoffensive ? " 

Now I say there is confusion of thought on this 
subject. Of course these questions must be affirma- 
tively answered. It is right, it is a duty, to be open- 
hearted and true. But this view does not cover the 
whole ground ; some other considerations of great 
importance are left out of sight ; and what I wish to 
do is to disentangle the subject, and to show what is 
the true statement of the duty, and where the self- 
delusion lies. 

And in the beginning let me say, that, before we 
can understand any subject of this kind aright, there 
are some indispensable conditions ; the foremost of 
which is, we must have a Christianized conscience, 

— not a mere hap-hazard knowledge of right from 
wrong, obtained or found we know not when nor 
how. Such is what most men call their conscience, 

— mere skin-deep notions, which came to them by 
chance, and which have never been found wanting 
simply because they have never been tried. As the 
early converts were commanded to be baptized in 

19 



218 



CHRISTIAN SINCERITY. 



the clear-flowing streams, so every man's conscience 
needs to be washed, purified from its errors and de- 
lusions, before it can answer the purpose of a con- 
science. Till that is done, it misleads, it blinds, it 
mistakes, and perverts ; it will not serve much better 
for the guidance of the life and the regulation of the 
heart, than Julius Caesars almanac would answer for 
the present year. 

And the change thus essential in the conscience is 
to put it in a Christian state. Very much depends 
on the position from which we take our views ; — 
looking on any landscape, we see that there are points 
of vision where, if we were to paint the scene, no- 
body would know it ; all things would be out of 
their places ; the impression given would not be 
true. So it is in morals and religion ; and we never 
see things aright till we put ourselves in the Chris- 
tian relation of children to a Father, and regard all 
mankind as our brethren. Then we understand 
what our obligations are ; Ave comprehend their bear- 
ings and proportions ; and duty, thus viewed and 
defined in the light of a Christian conscience, is a 
different thing from duty as it is described and rec- 
ognized by the natural heart, as objects just seen in 
the dim twilight of the morning are entirely altered 
when we behold them in the all-revealing light 
of day. 

Now I say, that to put ourselves in this relation of 
children to God, and of brethren to those around us, 
and to recognize the duties which grow out of these 
relations, is the indispensable condition of Christian 



CHRISTIAN SINCERITY. 



219 



judgment; the beginning of Christian duty. Who- 
ever has not done this must not talk of acting from 
a sense of duty, any more than he who does not 
know the alphabet, of reading. He may act from 
what he calls a sense of duty, but it will generally 
appear to be some passion baptized with a name 
which it little deserves. His sincerity, like his other 
virtues, will not have the stamp of Christianity upon 
it. That is, it will not be true ; for only Christian 
virtues are genuine virtues. Other affections may 
wear the form and be called by the name • but if 
not counterfeit, they are mistaken ; — they will not 
pass with the Judge of quick and dead. 

Having thus mentioned the outfit, without which 
the voyage of the Christian life cannot be safely nor 
successfully made, I would next proceed to say that 
a Christian — I mean a Christian in spirit — can be 
sincere, and at the same time without offence : he 
can keep his heart open to God and open to man ; 
he can make known his sentiments and opinions 
without reserve, and he can do it without injuring 
any one's feelings or calling enmity down upon his 
head. I readily allow, that one who has not the 
Christian spirit cannot do this thing : and why ? 
Not because it cannot be done, but because he does 
not take the right way to do it. There are many 
things which are perfectly practicable if properly 
undertaken, which become impossible when we set 
about them with wrong feeling and a bitter heart. 
Look sharply at those who complain most of the 
resistance and contrary-mindedness of men, observe 



220 



CHRISTIAN SINCERITY. 



their ways of proceeding, and you understand at 
once why their sincerity is offensive and their be- 
nevolent efforts do more hurt than good. They 
warn the sinner of the error of his way, but they 
contrive to convey an insult together with their 
warning ; they would fain save endangered souls 
like brands from the burning, and they would draw 
them out with the tongs ; they scold, and threaten, 
and call up all manner of passions in opposition to 
their attempted reforms, and then complain that men 
dislike sincere dealing, when the truth is only that 
men do not like to be abused. 

It is the fact, doubt it or deny it who will, that 
Christian sincerity — that is, kind sincerity — seldom 
offends ; or if it does, it is but for a moment ; the 
irritation is over at once, and always gives place to a 
feeling of gratitude to the friend who has manifested 
this interest in his brother's welfare. When you let 
your neighbour know your poor opinion of him, if 
he thinks that it gives you pleasure to say it, he will 
be angry, no doubt ; but why ? Not because of your 
sincerity, but because of the unkindness which at- 
tended it. Tell him the truth of your opinion and 
disposition toward him as a gratification of your own 
feeling, and he may hate you ; but if you spoke 
with an evident interest in his welfare, such as a 
brother should feel, you might say ten times more 
without awakening a single resentful feeling : or 
rather, you might give him a sense of gratitude to 
you that would last as long as he lives. While they 
who speak the truth in wantonness or impudence. 



CHRISTIAN SINCERITY. 



221 



or malice, make enemies by the score, you will not 
find many examples, in the ordinary walks of life, of 
those who have provoked revenge and resistance by 
speaking the truth in love. If you would feed the 
hungry, there is a great difference between setting 
food kindly before them and throwing it into their 
faces. Yet many make no distinctions ; they think 
the duty of sincerity equally meritorious in them- 
selves, in whatever manner they perform it, not see- 
ing that the want of Christian feeling vitiates every 
duty, changing blessing into cursing, and virtues 
into sins. 

Since it is quite possible, then, or rather, since it 
is our duty, to be sincere and without offence, we 
ought next to consider how it may be done. 

First, we must put ourselves in a right state of 
feeling to be sincere, — that is, to discharge this duty 
of sincerity. Considered merely as a native trait of 
character, it is worth much to its possessor. In the 
kind and conscientious it is eminently beautiful, — it 
has the same sort of attraction with the easy and 
unstudied grace of childhood ; but when connected 
with a less generous disposition, it becomes a snare, 
— leading one to the hasty utterance of feelings 
which he had better silence and suppress ; and when 
found in a person of bitter, unsocial, and overbear- 
ing spirit, it has all the ugliness of sin. If order, 
neatness, and peace are found within the dwelling, 
it is well to have clean windows ; but if riot, filth, 
and discord are there, the more the glass is darkened 
with dust, the better. In like manner, sincerity may 
19* 



222 



CHRISTIAN SINCERITY. 



lose all the loveliness, the blessing, and even the 
reality of virtue, should it be found, as it sometimes 
is found, in a hot or a cold, a malicious or a venge- 
ful heart. No words are too strong to impress the 
necessity of making the tree good in order that the 
fruit shall be good, — of starting with the right prin- 
ciple and the right spirit, remembering that a defect 
or perversion in these first elements of the Christian 
life may send a depraving influence through all the 
character and all time. It is the same thing which 
is condensed in the broad and luminous expression, 
that we are nothing without love. Our virtues, or 
rather, what might be virtues, are nothing, unless a 
kind spirit is in them, and sincerity without it will 
be unloving and unlovely, unblessed of heaven, un- 
welcome and unprofitable to man. 

In the second place, we must examine ourselves 
strictly in reference to this point ; because we are 
too easily contented with general impressions that 
all is right within us. If a man asks himself wheth- 
er his heart is right, he is easily satisfied with a 
careless feeling that it is. It is only by watching 
its manifestations, by observing how he is affected 
by particular circumstances or particular persons, that 
one can find out what spirit he is of. He says that 
he has no unkindness to any body ; but observe if 
there are any whom he treats coldly, — of whom he 
speaks severely ; then you may find that he is unac- 
quainted with himself ; and it is only by unsparing 
self-scrutiny that he can detect the plague of his 
own heart. Let him say whether he endeavours to 



CHRISTIAN SINCERITY. 



223 



love those who hate him. whether he prays for those 
who use him contemptuously, whether he can give 
his hand to every man cordially, as to a brother : 
for all this Jesus did, — all this he said that his fol- 
lowers must do, or they are none of his. Do you 
openly say that you have not these feelings, — that 
you do not try to have them, that you do not wish 
to have them ? The sincerity with which you de- 
clare it will not supply what is wanting : you can 
never make yourself a Christian by simply acknowl- 
edging that you are not one now. 

In the third place, let us remember, that, if we 
would be sincere and without offence, we must pre- 
pare for true sincerity with others by being sincere 
with ourselves. The virtue ceases to be a virtue 
unless we carry it through ; and yet there are those 
who pride themselves on their open dealing with 
others, while they use no sincerity with themselves, 
— never studying out their own dangers and defi- 
ciencies, never wishing to know them, — apparently 
thinking, that, if a man is without concealment where 
others are concerned, he may lie to himself as much 
and as fast as he will. If to deceive others is a sin, 
to practise a fraud on one's self is not without its 
dangers ; in one respect the danger is greater than 
that of other transgressions. Whoever deceives oth- 
ers knows it ; he cannot hide it from himself: he 
cannot hold up his head or his heart as if he was 
not guilty. Not so with him who deceives himself. 
He destroys the sensibility of conscience : he pre- 
vents the possibility of shame : he may live and die, 



224 



CHRISTIAN SINCERITY. 



applauding himself for sincerity to others, when a 
little openness to himself would show that no Chris- 
tian — that is, no conscientious — virtues have ever 
had place in his soul. 

Let it be remembered, then, that sincerity is a 
Christian grace only when it is found in a Chris- 
tian's heart. If it is bitter, and unkind, and offen- 
sive, it may be sincerity, but it is not the sincerity 
of a Christian. It is not inspired by a sense of duty ; 
it is nothing more than self-indulgence ; it has no 
praise of men ; it is not accepted and blessed of God. 
Let us resolve to cherish the virtues, not as we find 
them in ourselves, but as they are displayed in the 
life and example of our Master. There are vegeta- 
bles in the garden which in their wild state are little 
better than poisonous, but by being cultivated have 
become good for food ; so there are virtues which in 
the natural heart are of no value, while in the Chris- 
tian heart they are rich and glorious elements of 
character. Let us not mistake the imperfect for the 
finished, the partial for the whole ; let us endeavour 
to secure the Christian virtues in their completeness, 
and to be entire, wanting nothing. Thus we " may 
be sincere and without offence till the day of Christ ; 
being filled with the fruits of righteousness, which 
are by Jesus Christ, unto the glory and praise of 
God." 



SERMON IX. 



THE TRINITY. 

I AND MY FATHER ARE ONE. John X. 30. 

I have refrained for years from treating of doctri- 
nal discussions in this place, except as they were in- 
cidentally suggested ; not because I did not think it 
important to form right opinions, but because I 
thought men were much more likely to form their 
opinions aright without such discussions than with 
them, — by resorting solely to the word of God. Such 
examinations may not bring men to your opinions nor 
mine, but they will bring them to the truth; — for 
whatever a man receives after conscientious exam- 
ination of the subject is truth to him. Why can we 
not make the distinction between views of truth, 
and truth itself ? They are different things. Thus, 
here stands a mountain: a man who lives on one 
side represents it as a pyramid, piercing the heaven 
as with a wedge ; another in another quarter paints 
it as resembling a high-breaking wave ; another yet 
in his drawing makes it like a wall with battlements 
and towers. So various are their views of the same 
object in nature ; but there stands the mountain un- 



226 



THE TRINITY. 



changing and unchanged. And so truth remains un- 
changing and unchanged, while the views which 
men take of it vary with their position, with their 
natural spirit, and the influences which have power 
in their souls. 

But the words of our text require some interpreta- 
tion. " I and my Father are one." And that you 
may not suspect me of being influenced by party 
spirit, should I attempt to explain them. I will give 
you other authority for what I say. Dr. Campbell, 
an interpreter of the Scriptures who was orthodox 
enough and to spare, says, — " The word is not el S) 
one person, but ez>, one thing, or the same thing. It 
might have been so rendered here ; but the expres- 
sion is too homely, in the opinion of some excellent 
critics, to suit the dignity of the subject." But, he 
adds, " what is distinguished in the original, we 
ought, if possible, to distinguish." In almost all 
translations of the Scriptures except the English, in 
the Latin, in the French, in the Italian, you will find 
this distinction ; in the English it does not appear, 
so that this fails to give the Saviour's meaning. But 
let that meaning be restored, — "I and my Father are 
the same thing." Let us no longer follow those 
" excellent critics," who care more for the dignity of 
language than the dignity of truth. 

It is not because I have any objection to the state- 
ment that the Father and Son are the same person, 
that I correct this mistaken reading ; for such has 
been, and is now, the opinion of a great portion of 
the best Christians. They believe, and have be- 



THE TRINITY. 



227 



lieved for ages, that God exists, or at least manifests 
himself, in three persons. Now I believe that no 
opinion can obtain large and long acceptance, can 
be believed by many and for ages, without having 
in it. or under it, a basis and substance of truth. 
The truth is the life of every opinion : — ■ unless 
there is truth in it, it will soon and surely die. And 
if this doctrine, that God manifests himself in three 
persons, has been for many generations accepted and 
kept near the hearts of true Christians, it is not to 
be lightly rejected ; it is perhaps not to be rejected 
at all. We must rather search into it diligently, to 
see why it is that they prize it, — to see, indeed, what 
it is ; for it is one of the effects of controversy, not 
only to make men ignorant of the opinions of oth- 
ers, but also to blind them to their own. 

But you ask, "How can it be true that God man- 
ifests himself in three persons ? " To answer this 
question, we must first ascertain what a person is, 
and what was probably meant by those who first 
used the word. Going back to the language from 
which the word c * person " came, we find it was 
taken from representations on the stage. The per- 
sona was the mask which an actor wore, through 
which he spoke to the audience ; and it was shaped 
in its features to be expressive of the character which 
the actor sustained. In process of time, the original 
meaning of the word persona was forgotten ; it came 
to stand for a character. So it was often used in 
ancient times, and so, without doubt, it was used 
by those who represented God as manifesting him- 



223 



THE TRINITY. 



self in three "persons " ; — not meaning that three 
different beings were united in one being, which is 
impossible, but only that God sustains three different 
characters in his intercourse with men : — meaning 
that in Christianity he is represented in the character 
of a Father, when considered as creating or preserv- 
ing the universe, in the character of a Redeemer, 
when he saves the world through Jesus Christ, and 
in the character of a Comforter and Sanctifier, when 
he holds direct communication with the souls of 
men. This I believe was the original doctrine of 
one God in three persons ; it meant three " charac- 
ters," not three "beings"; and, for my part, I see 
nothing to object to it. If it did not give the im- 
pression that God represents himself in three char- 
acters only^ I should readily receive it as true. It is 
not a simple nor happy statement of truth, and yet 
it is substantially true. 

Now it is in this sense of the word "'person," — 
person being used for character, — that it is said that 
Jesus Christ and his Father are one, — one - person." 
if you will. No one can believe that two beings are 
one being : nothing is more certain than that two 
beings are not one being : and yet they may be 
spoken of as one person, because it is understood to 
mean one character, and this is eminently true of 
the Father and the Son. It is the character of God 
which is manifested through the Saviour ; it was to 
give us an idea of the Divine character that he came : 
when I look at his character, I see in it a living 
representation of the character of God. I make no 



THE TRINITY. 



229 



separation in my own mind between his character 
and that of the Almighty. When I look into a re- 
flecting telescope, I see an image of the planet toward 
which the tube is turned. I say I am looking at the 
planet itself, and yet it is the reflection which comes 
to me ; still I think and speak of the planet and 
its image as one. In the same sense are the Saviour 
and his Father one ; and if we have reference to 
character when we speak of them as one, there is no 
contradiction ; it is no mistake. Though they are 
separate beings, and as beings cannot be the same 
with each other, still, in character, in purpose, in 
love for mankind, they are one. He or his Father, 
it is the same thing, — inspiring the same affections, 
breathing the same spirit of love. 

This I take to be the doctrine of the Trinity as 
it originally found faith and favor in men's hearts. 
It did not maintain the impossibility that three be- 
ings are one, but only that God manifests himself in 
three different aspects to men, which is true ; — not 
only in three, but in many others ; still, in all these 
characters it is the same God who appears to us, for 
there is but one. In this form it is neither unrea- 
sonable nor untrue ; and it is in this form, I am per- 
suaded, that the doctrine is now generally received 
by the thinking part of the Christian world. If it 
did not admit of being received in this form, I be- 
lieve it would have been rejected long ago. 

But I pass to another part of the same doctrine ; 
I mean, the union of God and man in the person of 
Jesus Christ. Had it originally meant that two be- 
20 



230 



THE TRINITY. 



ings were united in one. it would soon have perished 
and passed away. But taking the word "person" 
in its original meaning, the doctrine would be, — in- 
deed the doctrine was, — that Divine attributes and 
human virtues were united in the character of Jesus 
Christ. And this, so far from being mysterious, 
inconsistent, or impossible, is the result which our 
Saviour endeavours to produce in all his followers. 
He wishes to make them like himself, — uniting 
the Divine and human in character : he speaks as 
if man might be made in some humble measure a 
resemblance of himself, — a character where the Di- 
vine is blended with the human, and the human rises 
and towers into the Divine. Not that man can ever 
be invested with miraculous gifts and powers, like 
his own, — not that man should be commissioned to 
govern the elements of nature, to heal the dying, 
and raise the dead. It is character of which we are 
speaking, and, however inferior in nature or station 
to himself, he addresses men as if their character 
might be formed, under the influences of Heaven, 
after the likeness and fashion of his own. 

Some, however, will ask, how I can speak of the 
union of Divine excellence with human virtue in the 
Saviour, when human and Divine excellence only 
differ in degree. If it were so, there would not be 
two different characters to be united in one. But it 
is a mistake to suppose that Divine excellence in- 
cludes human excellence within it, as the greater in- 
cludes the less. On the contrary, they are different 
in kind: they consist of different elements; they 



THE TRINITY. 



231 



exist independently of each other, and it was by far 
the grandest disclosure that ever was made to men, 
when it was manifested in the Saviour that the hu- 
man could be united with the Divine. If an airy 
bridge were formed, by which man could reach the 
stars, it would not open such a field for the ambition 
of man, nor so much exalt his glory. 

If you ask what excellence there is in human 
character which does not belong to the Divine, I 
answer in one word, — religion. That sort of ven- 
eration with which we contemplate surpassing excel- 
lence and greatness, that confiding spirit with which 
man clings to the rock that is higher than he, is one 
of the most exalting traits in human character. Man 
must respect in order to be respectable himself ; his 
veneration, his self-humiliation in presence of supe- 
rior moral claims, so far from lowering his real stand- 
ing, elevates him in the sight of God and man. But 
evidently the Highest of all beings cannot venerate, 
because there is nothing higher nor greater than him- 
self. All those beautiful and refining emotions, 
which grow out of a sense of dependence on a heav- 
enly Father, belong not to the God of heaven ; so 
that religion, which is the crowning grace of human 
character, makes no part of the Divine. 

So, too, it is plain that improvement, which is the 
life of human virtue, can make no part of the excel- 
lence of the Most High. Man sets out from small 
beginnings, — his powers are like the small blade 
springing in the early year, which gradually and 
slowly rises, and spreads and unfolds its treasury of 



232 



THE TRINITY. 



flowers. And all this process is a work of life ; the 
whole development is living and healthy action ; and 
never is man acting in so exact consistency with his 
nature, as when he rises in the ascending scale of 
improvement, where every climbing step lifts him 
into a purer air, enlarges his field of vision, and 
brings him nearer to that clear, bright summit which 
it is his heart's desire to reach. 

Here we see that there are some of the best traits 
of human excellence which make no part of the Di- 
vine. Religion and religious improvement are ex- 
clusively human traits of character, and to these and 
other human virtues our Saviour united traits of 
Divine excellence in such a union as never existed 
before him, and such as we could not have compre- 
hended had we not seen it manifested in living ac- 
tion in his history while he was in this world. Thus 
we see that to godliness he added humanity, which 
inspiration says is better, — godliness being the hu- 
man virtue and humanity the Divine. Never was 
any thing like universal benevolence, never was any 
all-embracing good-will, seen, or known, or dreamed 
of, till it shone out in the Saviour's life of love. 
And then that self-sustaining energy which grows 
out of conscience, which more than any thing else 
reminds us of self-existence, and that steady and 
unchanging perseverance in well-doing which gives 
a sort of eternity to the creature of to-day, in re- 
semblance of Jesus, who was " the same yesterday, 
to-day, and for ever,"* — these, and many other Di- 
vine traits, did he bring into connection with human 



THE TRINITY. 



233 



excellence, thus presenting a union of God and man 
such as the world never before saw. 

I dwell on this union longer, perhaps, than is ne- 
cessary, for I wish that my meaning and my view of 
the subject may be thoroughly understood. I am 
not fond of believing that my brother-Christians pro- 
fess absurdities and contradictions. I care much 
more for my own feeling toward them, than I do for 
their feeling toward me. I would fain respect their 
understandings as well as their hearts. Hence I re- 
joice to see, that, when they first used the word " per- 
son " in this connection, they meant character, and 
the doctrine of the Trinity originally was, that God 
manifests himself in three different characters, — in 
creating and preserving, in redeeming and saving, 
and in comforting and sanctifying, the sons of men. 
Who will deny it? Who stands ready to contro- 
vert a truth which is so little at war with the Gos- 
pel ? The union of God and man, — which, when 
first thought of as a union of person, seems impossible 
to believe or understand, — if we remember that per- 
son originally meant character, and that a union of 
character is all that is intended, ceases to be a mys- 
tery or contradiction, and becomes an inspiring truth. 
And thus it is that every doctrine which has ever 
gained large acceptance was originally founded on a 
basis of truth, and if we dig through the fragments 
which have crumbled and fallen round it, we shall 
come down to the living stone, — to the rock of ages 
on which it stands. 

Here you see the reason why I have never pressed 
20* 



234 



THE TRINITY. 



this subject ; it is because I believe that the great 
proportion of Christians hold opinions in relation to 
it substantially the same with ours. When Profes- 
sor Stuart came forward as the authorized expounder 
of the Trinitarian faith, he said they did not be- 
lieve in three persons as we use the word ; they did 
not believe in three beings united in one God : all 
they maintained was, that the Scriptures recognized 
a threefold distinction in the Deity, — meaning, as 
it would seem, a distinction of character, such as I 
have admitted ; for the Scriptures speak of God the 
Father, they speak of the Saviour as God with us, 
and the term Holy Spirit is often applied to God. 
And thus, I have no doubt, you will find that those 
who really have opinions on these subjects agree 
very nearly with each other. The great difficulty 
is, that so many take up with words, and never are 
at the pains of forming an opinion. Looking at the 
words which Christians use, you would suppose 
them to be fearfully disunited ; but words are not 
much, — words are the daughters of earth, and 
therefore perishable, while things are the sons of 
heaven, and do not pass away. Words cannot keep 
men apart for ever, any more than air-lines can form 
permanent inclosures. There are some animals, 
which, if you draw a line round them, will feel as 
if it could not be passed over ; but the greater pro- 
portion of those which have wings and feet are 
always ready to use them. No one needs be trou- 
bled about party feelings ; they are of those things 
which perish with the using. Now they are like 



THE TRINITY. 



235 



ice upon the living waters, binding up their chan- 
nels and suppressing the music of their flow ; but 
when the Sun of righteousness rises higher, — and 
rise it will, — all these chilling restraints on the free 
action of the mind and heart shall feel its influence, 
and for ever melt away. 

I see the Divine mercy in this provision, that in 
all matters of profound importance men cannot think 
very unlike each other. They may talk very dif- 
ferently ; they may feel some alienation ; but these 
things are written so plainly on the front of the 
sacred page that he who runs may read, and read 
the same practical meaning. As Christians grow 
more spiritual, they take less note of things out- 
ward, and give more heed to those that are within. 
When they look under the distinctions of party, they 
see that one Christian is like another Christian ; his 
real character is not affected by the name which he 
happens to bear. And thus narrowness and exclu- 
sion are wearing away ; — things are leading to that 
consummation when there shall be one fold and one 
shepherd, — one faith, one baptism, — one God and 
Father of all. 



SERMON X. 



IMMORTALITY OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

YOUR HEART SHALL LIVE FOR EVER. — Psalm XXL1. 26. 

Of the many striking things in the Old Testa- 
ment, there are none which impress me more than 
these transient and occasional bursts of inspiration, 
which anticipate what Christianity was afterwards 
to teach, and intimate to that dark, ancient world 
what its rich disclosures of truth were to be. They 
seem like lightning-flashes, illuminating the deep 
obscurity for a moment : — not long enough to give 
any clear and connected impressions of truth to those 
who knew it not : but still they are sufficient to 
show to those who might otherwise doubt it. that 
the inspiration of God is in those ancient volumes, 
and gleams of the same light shone through it which 
afterwards broke in full glory upon the world when 
the Saviour came from on high. 

Observe, then, how much is implied in these 
words, — "Your heart shall live for ever." They 
mean that the body shall not : in its present elements 
it shall not ; it has nothing to do with the life im- 
mortal. Now we lavish our pains and care upon 



IMMORTALITY OF THE AFFECTIONS. 237 

it ; earnest to provide for its wants, its dress, its 
nourishment, and shelter ; — still more solicitous to 
provide it with those luxuries which sometimes bring 
heaviness and disease, and never minister to its 
strength and joy. Our anxiety and forecast for the 
body extend into the future. We are unhappy if 
we have not laid up means and resources to sustain 
it in future years, not one of which, perhaps, we are 
to see. So much does the worldly spirit act upon 
the religious spirit, that if any one suggests that the 
body shall not survive the grave, — that the spiritual 
body, according to St. Paul's fine illustration, shall 
be as different from it as the new plant is from the 
seed from which it springs, — he is rejected as a teach- 
er of falsehood and delusion. But certain it is, — 
and this is the point of the truth conveyed in 1 these 
words, — certain it is that the happiness of the future 
existence shall not come from the body, from the 
gratification of its passions, nor the exercise of its 
powers ; and just so far as a man depends for his 
enjoyment on these earthly indulgences, he is unfit 
for that spiritual state to which death will soon trans- 
late us, and for which it is our wisdom now to pre- 
pare. He will find himself in that world cursed 
with desires for which there is no gratification : 
while the enjoyments of the refined, heavenly spirit 
are no better than tortures to his soul. 

These words also imply that the mind, though it 
shall endure, will not be the source of happiness in 
another existence. We know too little of its nature 
to say whether death will change it ; but certainly 



238 IMMORTALITY OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

it will change our estimation of it ; for now, in this 
world, talent, force of mind, genius, are set highest 
among the gifts of God. This is an advance, indeed, 
from that state of imperfect civilization in which 
bodily strength and symmetry are in the highest 
esteem ; in proportion as men make intellectual ad- 
vances, the mind and its interests rise above the body 
and its powers. But our religion would fain carry 
on this course of improvement till men shall under- 
stand that the affections, — or, as they are called in 
Scripture, the heart, — the heart is as much above 
the understanding as the mind is above the body 
whose home is the dust. It is in the affections that 
the elements of heavenly happiness are to be found ; 
the improvement of the affections, rather than of 
the mind, is the preparation for the heavenly state. 
And though we look with pleasure on physical 
strength and beauty, which strike the eye, — though 
we admire intellectual ability as it deserves, and 
even more than it deserves, — still, in the sight of 
angels and of God, he is the best, and happiest, and 
greatest of mankind who has the largest and best 
heart. " Your heart shall live for ever." 

These words teach us what should be our constant 
object, and lead us also to consider how abundantly 
God has provided for it on every side. 

Consider, in the first place, how all the arrange- 
ments of this life favor the growth of those affec- 
tions which are the elements of life immortal. Our 
present existence is not much by itself ; but it grows 
into immense importance when we consider it as 



IMMORTALITY OF THE AFFECTIONS. 239 

part of another. Its joys and sorrows, however 
deep, are comparatively transient, its opportunities 
are fleeting, its best attainments few ; but when we 
regard them as pointing forward to other things be- 
yond themselves, — far greater and more enduring 
than themselves, — they become solemn and momen- 
tous. And we may see, if we look for the traces 
of God's design, how all the arrangements of life 
are framed with the view of calling out the affec- 
tions in preparation for life immortal. The home, 
where it is a home, is evidently ordained for this 
purpose, requiring of each within it to suppress 
those selfish passions which darken over every thing 
which they touch, and making it manifest that all 
the sunshine and comfort of the dwelling depend, 
not on its magnificence, not on the luxuries within 
it, but simply and entirely on the spirit of love with- 
in. And the circle of friendship carries out those 
same affections into wider range. If we can only 
keep down those jealousies and passions in which 
this cold world abounds, entering into the feelings of 
others with hearty sympathy and good-will, we find 
that the good we can do to them, important as that 
may be, is less than the blessing which comes home 
to ourselves. And that all these are Divine arrange- 
ments may be seen from the moral and spiritual laws 
which run through them, — which ordain that these 
affections shall move in paths of duty, or as soon as 
they wander from them shall lose their health and 
joy, and bring returns of nothing but pain. Any 
thing which approaches to guilty passion, any attach- 



240 IMMORTALITY OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

ment which God and conscience forbid, any even of 
those capricious and wandering regards which pass 
over those to whom nature devotes them, and fasten 
on strangers or companions who have no right to 
such a place in the heart, any even the least deser- 
tion of those paths in which duty requires the affec- 
tions to go, has a withering power upon them. Like 
the palm-tree, they can only exist where God hath 
planted them ; transplant them to another place, and 
they die. In this moral condition of their existence, 
we may evidently see the hand and the providence 
of God. 

But these arrangements of life for a certain pur- 
pose are not meant to effect that purpose of them- 
selves ; it rests with us to trace out, to follow, and 
improve them. The first business of the Christian 
life is to deny ourselves ; which means, not to deny 
ourselves a blessing here or there, but to resist the 
strong, selfish tendency of our nature, to train our 
affections in the right way, to regard them as the 
beginnings and indications of our future destiny, 
and to keep our heart with all diligence, since out of 
it are the fountains of immortal life. Once attach 
this thought of immortality to the affections, and 
how mighty and solemn all those interests become ! 
Those with whom we are associated are no longer 
like wayfarers met m a journey, parted from and 
seen no more. They are associated with us for life, 
and life is for ever ; and it is a matter of profound 
concern to cherish every right attachment, to open 
the heart wide, and to embrace as many as possible 



IMMORTALITY OF THE AFFECTIONS. 241 

in the circle of its love. And this is easy to any- 
one who takes counsel of his Master. If he follows 
the guidance of his own deceitful heart, cold, limit- 
ed, and exclusive the range of his affections will be, 
and equally narrow will be the bounds of his future 
heaven ; but if he endeavours to possess the univer- 
sal kindness, the all-embracing love of Jesus Christ, 
he will see what others do not see, — that the exer- 
cise of those unselfish and generous affections is the 
only true happiness of this life, the only heaven of 
the other ; and he will bless the order of Providence, 
and those arrangements of social existence which 
call out and favor the upspringing of love in the 
heart. 

Again : the arrangements of death, all of which 
have a purpose and a meaning, are even more fitted 
to form for immortality the heart which is to live 
for ever. The world is changed by the presence of 
death ; wherever it comes, we feel that a new influ- 
ence is there ; a power is there which was not there 
before, Each one who feels at all feels that some- 
thing is meant by it, that it is a communication ad- 
dressed to him. All the base passions are hushed 
into unusual silence ; you may approach your worst 
enemy then, he cannot lift his hand against you :. 
even the grasping hand of worldliness is unclenched 
for a little while. The friendship which in former 
days you prized as one of the blessings of existence 
now appears as it is, — an indispensable treasure ; you 
cannot do without its sympathy ; the cold-flowing 
waters in a thirsty land are not so welcome as its 
21 



242 IMMORTALITY OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

words of feeling to you. Man feels that power, 
gold, luxury, and the possessions most desired, have 
no substantial value ; they cannot supply the wants 
of his heart in those dark hours ; nothing will an- 
swer his purpose of comfort but an influence coming 
back to his own heart from other hearts which are to 
live for ever. 

But to see the wisdom of these arrangements is of 
little avail, unless we feel them ; and surely never 
do the affections come forth in purer or more disin- 
terested action than in the presence of death. The 
low whispers of the dying voice, the unutterable 
expression of the dying eye, the faint pressure of 
the hand that shall never be pressed again, the si- 
lence of the death-chamber, and all the scene before 
us, when a loved one passes away, have a power, not 
so much to oppress the heart, as to wake it into in- 
tensest action, and to make manifest all the warm 
affections which have their dwelling within. And 
it is for this reason, undoubtedly, that we are com- 
pelled to pass through these fearful separations. We 
shudder to think of them, we entreat that they may 
never come to us again, and yet we know, that, if 
we have not been insensible or unfaithful, they have 
done for us a service which nothing else could do. 
They have left our hearts better, and more like 
hearts, than they found them ; they have brought 
us into dearer communion than ever before, even 
with those whom we were losing. The love which 
began on earth rose into a heavenly affection, and 
at the very moment when all faith and firmness 



IMMORTALITY OF THE AFFECTIONS. 243 

seemed breaking down within us, we were coming 
nearer than ever to oar friends, to our Saviour, and 
our God. 

These changes come not often ; and when they do, 
it is of great concern that we prepare to receive them 
aright, and take from them the blessing which they 
bear. It is God who is speaking to us at such times 3 
and it is not well to turn away from his communi- 
cations. We must listen with undivided attention • 
we must look steadily at what he has done, to make 
sure that we understand it ; we must not hasten back 
to the ordinary cares of life, when the very office of 
the death-angel is to summon us away from those or- 
dinary concerns to think of higher and better things. 
Rare and precious, as well as fearful, are these mo- 
ments ; great and irreparable is our loss if we lose 
them ; but if we receive them as a Father's arrange- 
ments for our welfare, we shall be surprised to find 
a feeling of gratitude springing out of the ruins of 
our earthly happiness ; and still more so, to discover 
that a new depth and tenderness of feeling come 
from the blow which seemed stunning to the heart. 

Once more. The arrangements of the future ex- 
istence are also of a kind to favor the growth of the 
affections. I do not mean in those who have entered 
upon their immortal existence ; for we know not 
what they are now, nor where is their home, and it 
is only rash and presumptuous conjecture which un- 
dertakes to speak of their condition and circumstan- 
ces, and the influences which act upon their souls. 
But the foresight of the future state, the vision of it 



244 IMMORTALITY OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

which lies before us in the light of the Gospel, must 
necessarily have a great effect on the efforts which 
we make to reach it : and if we see that the power 
of the mind is little more than the vigor of the 
frame in giving us our preparation, we shall turn our 
attention as we ought to the full unfolding of the 
energies and affections of the heart. Suppressed and 
borne down as they are by the selfishness within, 
nothing but the most determined endeavour and pa- 
tient care can cause them to spring and grow in this 
world, in readiness to open like flowers in another 
existence, where the Sun of righteousness shines 
upon them with a nearer and brighter ray. 

If you ask what we can foreknow of the arrange- 
ments of another world, I reply, we see who are 
passing into that world, and what they bear with 
them. When I see who are entering the gates of a 
city, I can form some judgment of what is passing 
within its walls. I see the child going in early and 
unconscious life, before, as it would seem to us, any 
purpose of its coming here can be answered. But I 
see, that, early and unconscious as its departure is, 
it has had time and power to awaken strong interest 
and attachment in a parent's heart. So, then, it had 
its mission ; its work is done : it carries high hopes 
and beautiful affections with it, and it gives us the 
assurance, that in what relates to the heart the future 
life is not so unlike our own. There are young 
children in the house of their Father : their light 
steps and glad voices are heard in the many man- 
sions ; it is not in deep, deathlike silence that the 



IMMORTALITY OF THE AFFECTIONS. 245 



spirits of the blest spend their day ; there is the 
same, or rather a far greater, variety of interest and 
employment than this world affords. The holiest 
of earthly loves, that of parents for their children, 
cannot be wanting there, where all holy things as- 
semble, and He who on earth suffered little children 
to come to him, without a doubt, is equally ready in 
heaven to smile upon them and to bid them wel- 
come to his arms. 

On the same day and almost at the same hour that 
the infant ascends, another is called, whose life was 
in the strongest contrast to that of the unconscious 
child ; — the one who had not entered upon life, and 
the one who had passed through it, go together into 
the eternal world. The mother of a large family, 
wise, disinterested, true-hearted, of few words but 
strong affections, feeling that her many cares within 
the domestic circle did not allow her to wander often 
nor far beyond it, and yet always earnest to do what 
she was able in the cause of humanity, — always to 
be relied on as a fast and faithful friend, - — how dif- 
ferent the space which such a departure opens ! 
How wide, — how dreary, — how impossible to fill ! 
And the feelings wounded in this departure, how un- 
like they are to the disappointment and sorrow in 
the other ! There is no room for imaginative sad- 
ness. There is a cold, stern reality in the affliction, 
when the mother of a family is suddenly called from 
a place and a trust which require such thoughtful 
concern and perfect disinterestedness as are only to 
be found in a parent's heart. And where do we find 
21* 



246 IMMORTALITY OF THE AFFECTIONS. 

the explanation of such inroads of death, of which 
we have witnessed more than one ? Not surely in 
the loss, — the separation, — nor in the grave. We 
see the reason in the arrangements of the future life, 
so far as Jesus Christ reveals them ; for though the 
present relations of life shall not exist, being no 
longer needed there, the love, which is the life of 
those relations, shall endure, — not destroyed, not 
suspended, but only strengthened and made purer by 
separation ; and it is evidently the mission of these 
dispensations, which seem so fatal to our happiness, 
to prepare us to renew that love with truer and holier 
affection than ever entered the heart before. Thus 
the arrangements of a future existence, though they 
sometimes are bitter and hard to bear in this world, 
are really full of immortal blessing ; for as man him- 
self is not quickened except he die, so man's affec- 
tions can never come out in their best, most pow- 
erful, and heavenly action, till they have been sad- 
dened and darkened over by the awful presence of 
death. 

I would ask, then, if there is not deep meaning 
in those ancient words, — " Your heart shall live for 
ever." Awake, then, to a sense of the importance 
of the heart. See how all your welfare for this 
world and the other depends on the right unfolding 
and care of its affections. Remember, also, that 
there is deep responsibility connected with them, 
and that self-indulgence of the feelings, like all 
other self-indulgence, brings a heavy-laden harvest 
of sorrow and shame to the soul. The time is 



IMMORTALITY OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



247 



short. The death-angel's trumpet often rings in the 
midst of us ; as we listen to its shuddering blast, we 
should feel that the next summons may be ours. 
" Your heart shall live for ever." Is your heart right 
with God ? 



SERMON XI.* 



THE HOUSE OF GOD. 

AND NOW, I PRAY YOU, CONSIDER FROM THIS DAY AND UPWARD, 
FROM BEFORE A STONE WAS LAID UPON A STONE IN THE TEMPLE 

of the lord. — Haggai ii. 15. 

There are many things, which, without any sug- 
gestion on my part, will present themselves to your 
minds, to give interest to this occasion. We return, 
after a long and unpleasant suspension of our ser- 
vices, to this our spiritual home, where enough of 
the old remains to make it still seem familiar, and 
where enough is changed to make us feel the impor- 
tant advantages of the change. It is also the anni- 
versary of the day when I made my first address as 
the minister of this people. The society itself had 
been recently formed. I came among you a young 
man, without experience, without any adequate prep- 
aration, with a heart bowed down at the thought of 
standing apart from all professional sympathy, and 
within the dreary influences of a controversial Avar. 



* Preached, October 16, 1842, on reentering the church after it had 
been repaired and materially altered. 



THE HOUSE OF GOD. 



249 



I had nearly sunk under the oppression of those early, 
trying years. But I was sustained by generous con- 
fidence and kindness : there was full sympathy with 
my professional solitude, and it is owing to this, and 
the help of God, that now, at the end of twenty-two 
years. I still address you, and am able to congrat- 
ulate you on the possession of as much prosperity as 
such associations can expect to enjoy. I speak not 
of outward circumstances ; such prosperity is noth- 
ing compared to that of internal harmony, of mutual 
kindness and forbearance, and a faithful regard for 
religious services, in all which this society — it is 
but just to say it — never has been, and, I trust, 
never will be, wanting. 

It is with a solemn feeling that I look back on the 
founders of this church. Venerable forms come up 
before me, — men faithful almost to sternness in 
their regard for these sacred duties, having no faith 
in the devotion which loves not worship, and labor- 
ing to impress the same veneration on the minds of 
their children. I remember, too, others of my own 
age, with whom I hoped to go down the vale of de- 
clining 3^ears, — men, generous and true-hearted, — 
women, affectionate and kind, the life and pride of 
social circles, and ever faithful in their attendance 
here. All left in this house a dear and yet painful 
remembrance, when they went to take their places 
with the dead. 

But recollections of this kind, — what can they 
avail us now ? They can do this for us. Let us re- 
flect that the persons of whom we speak are now in 



250 



THE HOUSE OF GOD. 



the eternal world. Their present state — what it is 
we are not permitted to know — was in every respect 
determined by their religious faithfulness while they 
were with us on earth, — a religious faithfulness de- 
pending in no small measure on the estimation in 
which they held the service of this house of God. 
The subject, then, to which we naturally turn, is the 
service of the house of God. 

And, first, these places are strongholds of the 
religious principle of the community. I say not 
of the religious sentiment, because that expres- 
sion is misunderstood ; it is applied to a mere 
love of nature, a barren emotion of taste, which 
has no more connection with religious faithfulness 
than the admiration of a discovery of science or a 
work of art. A great proportion of what passes for 
religious sentiment only admits the fact of God's 
existence, and that so faintly that it amounts in 
practice almost to a denial ; for the language of the 
life is, — " There is a God, and there is a certain 
sublimity in the thought of such a majestic Power 
and Presence ; but what am I to him ? and, except 
as a subject of contemplation, what is he to me!" 
Now, beyond the satisfaction of feeling that we are 
not the sport of chance or destiny, what good can 
such a recognition of God ? s existence do: What 
good did it ever do ? You have found it in the 
licentious and profane : you have heard it breathed 
in beautiful tones from the lips of men of genius, 
whose lives were as base and contemptible as the 
talents which God gave them were great and high : 



THE HOUSE OF GOD. 



251 



you have seen enough to know that you may as soon 
expect fire to kindle from wintry moonbeams as with 
such religious sentiment to warm a human heart. 

The only thing in the form of religious sentiment 
which can do any good to the soul is that which 
recognizes God, not as a mere existence, not, to use 
the term of the day, as an abstraction, but which 
confesses him as the Author of life and blessing to all 
that live. Its language, I mean its practical language, 
is, — "I stand in some relation to him; it cannot 
be one of indifference ; I must have something to 
do with him and he must have some claim on me. 
Hence arises the feeling of obligation. If he has 
done so much for me, I ought — that is, / owe it 
— to do something to express my gratitude. It is 
not a matter of choice ; it is a debt that must and 
shall be paid." Thus seen and thus followed, the 
religious sentiment becomes a religious principle. It 
ceases to be a lifeless fancy ; it lives, and moves, and 
has a being, and acts with power on the heart in 
which it dwells. Now I say, — and I ask you to 
hear and remember, — it is because the house of God 
destroys the hollow, poetical fancy of religious sen- 
timent, and insists on religious principle — homely, 
hard-working, unpretending religious principle — as 
the essential thing, that it is so often rejected and 
held in light esteem. 

For the same reason it is that the Sabbath is 
sometimes misunderstood : — not by the sober com- 
mon-sense of New England ; that I would not say. 
The practical religious man knows that he has a 



252 



THE HOUSE OF GOD. 



work to do, and he wants a day to do it in. He 
wants a time for thoughtfulness, and it is a time 
which he knows how to enjoy. Go to such a man, 
and offer him the Sabbath of other lands ; invite 
him to fool away the consecrated hours in singing 
and dancing, or such poor amusements as the vacant 
mind can enjoy ; he will quietly leave all that hap- 
piness to children, and find his happiness in that 
thoughtfulness which the day of rest inspires, and 
which has given to that day its firm hold on the 
affections of enlightened men, — so firm a hold, 
that those who lately made an assault on the Sab- 
bath found themselves like men scratching with 
their fingers at the base of a rocky mountain in 
hopes to overthrow it from its bed. The Sabbath 
still exists ; — ay, and long will it exist, the only day 
of the seven, indeed, which shall endure when time 
shall be no more. 

The religious sentiment, then, embracing the idea 
of obligation, — in other words, religious principle, — 
is that which the service of this house is meant to 
inspire and cherish ; and I would next ask what sort 
of an obligation it must be. If there is a God, he is 
a living person, standing in a certain relation to us, 
having certain claims which must be answered. 
Does any one say it is an obligation to lead respect- 
able and decent lives ? No doubt there is such an 
obligation ; but is that high enough to reach up to 
God ? One who leads a respectable and decent life 
does well for himself and mankind unquestionably, 
as he who leads a base life degrades himself and in- 



THE HOUSE OF GOD. 



253 



jures others : but can any one say that this is full 
discharge of our obligations to God, or that it goes 
near to discharge them ? No : there must be some- 
thing more than this. To say that the religious sen- 
timent is embraced and implied in this would be 
saying what no one feels. The religious sentiment 
cannot be rightly felt except in the Christian way, — 
by looking up to God as our Father with childlike 
confidence united with awful veneration. Nothing 
else will lift up the heart from the depths of world- 
liness : nothing else will have power to touch the 
springs of immortal life. When a man feels bound 
to God to form himself for holiness and heaven, 
then and not before is there any reason to hope that 
the effort will be made and the work be done ; and 
as the domestic affections can be best formed under 
the roof of the family mansion, the religious spirit 
is intimately, I had almost said inseparably, con- 
nected with the sweet influences of the house of 
God. 

Some may think that I have carried this idea too 
far. To those who reflect but little on these sub- 
jects, and measure chem by common standards, it 
may seem like enthusiasm to say that every man 
must have the feeling of a child of God. But to 
all such objections I reply, that common worldly 
habits of thought, however just in their way, are no 
fit guides on these subjects ; worldly sagacity does 
not see through these things: you might as well 
depend on a foot-rule for measuring distances in 
heaven. There is no force, there is no sense, in that 
22 



254 



THE HOUSE OF GOD. 



presentment of the subject which leaves God out of 
view. If any one points out to me an unexception- 
able man, setting aside religious affections, and asks, 
Is he not good enough ? I answer, he may be good 
enough for this world ; he may be good to me ; but 
whether he is good enough for God is the great 
question, and to find the answer to this question I 
urge him to compare his heart and life with the Gos- 
pel, and see if nothing is wanting. Let him look 
earnestly to Jesus Christ and his early followers, and 
mark the elements of which their character was 
made up, and then ask himself whether the same 
mind and spirit are in him. 

The very object, then, of the service of this house 
is, to keep before the eyes of men a standard of 
character higher than they meet with in common 
business and care. The very circumstance, that the 
views presented in the church seem excessive, shows 
to the candid mind, — not that those views are over- 
wrought, — it shows rather how much the man of 
business and pleasure needs them. And if those 
views were bent down into conformity with the 
wisdom of this world, the very men who now com- 
plain of them as carried too far would be the first 
to trample them into the dust. Let this house, then, 
be kept sacred to religious feeling. There are good 
feelings which are not religious ; let this house be 
sacred to the filial feeling which dwells in a child 
of God. May we come here to learn of Jesus what 
that feeling is, — ■ to learn also his independence of 
this world and his familiarity with the other. 



THE HOUSE OF GOD. 



255 



And now I would go on to say, as the result of 
my experience and observation, that every one who 
cares to cherish the religious sentiment in himself 
loves the service of the house of God. I do not say, 
that men may not be found who desert these places 
of worship, and yet are laboring to feel and act like 
children of God ; — I only say, that I have never 
seen them. If there are such, they are probably 
those who are cultivating a barren religious senti- 
ment, in place of that practical and living principle 
which endeavours to bring itself into near union 
with God and man, and to draw near to one while 
drawing near the other. The man who is busy in 
the work of religious preparation is sure to find 
something in these places that aids him in that en- 
deavour. If he loses his interest in the services of 
God's house, it is not because the wants of his mind 
are not met, but because these wants are not felt as 
they ought to be. He knows that it is utterly im- 
possible for the mind to be always excited : original 
views are the rarest of all human things ; eloquent 
discourses like those of the great French preachers, 
or the great divine who lately passed away, suppose 
long seasons of leisure. But one really desirous of 
improvement can find something to interest where 
novelty or brilliancy is not the attraction. Is there 
nothing interesting in this fine season ? It is the 
same bright sun, there are the same colors on the 
leaves, — the same elements which gave beauty to 
the first autumn after the world began. But who is 
weary of the monotony of nature ? Who would 



256 



THE HOUSE OF GOD. 



wish to exchange it for any thing new 1 Such is 
divine truth to the lovers of truth, — beautiful in its 
unchangeable sameness, beautiful in the variety of 
its applications, always many, and yet always one. 

I would take this opportunity to make one or two 
remarks on the manner of conducting the services 
of this place, for my experience has shown me that 
some things here might be altered to advantage. 

The principal error consists in requiring two ser- 
mons every Sabbath from a single preacher. A ser- 
mon should be a full discussion of some important 
moral or religious subject, on which the writer should 
put forth all his strength. Now no man living can 
keep two such subjects upon his mind, during the 
same week, with so much advantage to his hearers 
as if he gave his whole attention to one. Accord- 
ingly, it would be a better way, as it seems to me. 
to have the sermon in the morning, and in the after- 
noon a service of a less elaborate and more popular 
character, — - perhaps an extemporaneous address, or 
an exposition of Scripture, — which would be quite 
as useful to the audience generally as a regular 
discourse. 

There is another subject which concerns the order 
and propriety of our service in the house of God, 
on which I again refer to experience for the course 
which seems to me to be the most appropriate. It 
has become common in some churches to remain seat- 
ed during the prayer. In this service the posture 
most favorable to strict attention is, in my opinion, 
the best. Standing is a constrained position : kneel- 



THE HOUSE OF GOD. 



257 



ing is still more so, and therefore likely to make one 
think of the body when the soul should be intently 
engaged with itself. For this reason, the new prac- 
tice would seem to be an improvement when we 
consider the uses of prayer to the suppliant. It may 
appear to others less reverential ; but we do not pray 
to keep up appearances : neither is it supposed that 
any one is looking round in prayer to consider ap- 
pearances. Let every one be busy with his own 
heart, as every one should be, and all will appear 
well in the sight of Him with whom we have to do. 
Still, in so long a service, something is gained by 
change of position : in fact, this is necessary, to pre- 
vent a heavy and languid feeling. Therefore I can- 
not help thinking that to stand when God's praise is 
sung, and to remain seated when prayer is offered, is 
the course which will finally prevail. 

But I am taking too much of your time with re- 
marks of this kind. Let us return to the occasion. 
We take possession of a house which, though not 
new, is renewed in almost every part, having this 
advantage over a new one, that some associations 
have become connected with it which the changes 
will not sweep away. Let them remain, and may 
other and holier associations come to deepen the im- 
pression with which this place should be regarded ! 
Consider not the fitness of its proportions, or the 
exactness of its arrangements, or any of the circum- 
stances which impress the eye ; for these are things 
of minor importance. Our great care should be, that 
it answers the purpose for which it is set apart, — 
22 * 



258 



THE HOUSE OF GOD. 



that of awakening and confirming religious principle 
in those who worship within its walls. Without 
this, the building will cumber the ground ; with it, 
it will become in very deed the house of God and 
the gate of heaven. 



SERMON XII. 



THE DISORDERED MIND. 

FOR I AM FEARFULLY AND WONDERFULLY MADE. — Psalm CXXXix. 14. 

It may have happened to you, in younger days, 
to go into some building where complicated and ex- 
tensive machinery was in busy motion. There were 
bands and wheels rolling in intense activity all around 
you, but you could not trace the object of their ac- 
tion, nor see how they moved in harmony with each 
other. It was with a perplexed and bewildered feel- 
ing that you looked into the dark depths of the en- 
ginery, for you felt that the principle of its construc- 
tion, and the manner in which it wrought out its 
results, were far beyond your reach. And while this 
mystery filled you with wonder, at times a heavy 
crash within the mass of rolling circles, or a clang 
as if axles and chains were breaking, or a dash of 
waters as if barriers were giving way, filled you for 
a moment with startling dread. 

It was with somewhat such a feeling that the 
writer of this Psalm thought of the complicated 
structure of man. He was a thoughtful observer. 
Careless spectators are seldom surprised ; they take 



260 



THE DISORDERED MIND. 



too little notice of what is before them to distinguish 
the unusual from the familiar, the strange from the 
common. But when one fixes an eye of intelligent 
discernment upon the things which God has made, 
the feeling of wonder begins to be excited. And 
when he considers his own organization, — how 
wisely it is formed for activity and strength, how 
marvellous are its powers and adaptations for accom- 
plishing the purposes of its existence, with what 
beautiful harmony its movements go on when dis- 
ease and irregularity have not enfeebled their power, 
— there is something graceful, fine, and inspiring in 
the contemplation which fills his heart with admir- 
ing praise. But when he sees how easily this ma- 
chine is disordered, its energy destroyed, its happy 
activity broken up, and its power subdued into help- 
lessness and woe, — how soon, without even suspect- 
ing his danger, man can be a total wreck and a help- 
less ruin, — he feels that we are fearfully, as well as 
wonderfully, made, and that no man can look thought- 
fully into his own frame without strong emotions of 
astonishment and dread. 

Whoever reflects must be powerfully impressed 
with the mechanical construction of the eye for pur- 
poses of vision, — of the ear for catching the most 
delicate sounds, — of the limbs for that activity and 
strength which self-preservation and subsistence re- 
quire. He must also be struck with that graceful- 
ness which attends all the movements of the sys- 
tem, which is always to be seen in childhood, and 
would be found in later years, if nature were not 



THE DISORDERED MIND. 



261 



distorted and resisted. One of the most eminent 
members of the medical profession, in ancient times, 
declared that his tendency to atheism was corrected 
by observing the structure of the human hand. The 
infinite variety of its motions — for example, in mu- 
sic or in writing, the delicacy and precision of its 
touch, the firmness with which it holds, the force 
with which it applies, in any direction, just the power 
which is wanted — is the result of a mechanical con- 
struction which man can hardly understand, which 
he cannot by any means imitate, with his most per- 
fect ingenuity ; and it convinced this great man that 
an intelligent Being must have designed it, for to the 
thoughtful it will always be a miracle of power and 
love, 

We all know how it is with us when all the parts 
of that mysterious organism, our body, are exercised 
in harmony and order. The world seems bright ; 
there is sunshine in the breast ; there is a freedom 
and airy lightness of feeling, which we call the sen- 
sation of health, and which is certainly the most 
delightful that man ever knows. While, on the con- 
trary, if there is any want of action, any loss of 
proportion, any jarring discord among the elements 
of our material nature, it brings pain, depression, and 
wretchedness with it. The head is sick ; the heart 
is faint ; the strong man bows himself: the shiver- 
ing chill makes the frame bend and tremble, or the 
fever flows like melted lead through the veins, and 
the sufferer feels within himself that it will take but 
little of those powerful influences to reduce him to 



262 



THE DISORDERED MIND. 



the dust. And one of the most fearful things con- 
nected with disease is the thought of our own in- 
strumentality in bringing it on. We cannot always 
tell what to ascribe to our own agency, and what is 
the act of God ; but we know that we have neg- 
lected the laws of life, that we have recklessly in- 
dulged our appetites and passions, that we have lived 
in luxurious repose, or overtaxed our energies in self- 
ish and worldly pursuits, and we are therefore haunted 
with the thought, for which there may be good rea- 
son, that we have been ourselves the inexcusable and 
unpitied authors of our own suffering. 

I place the physical system foremost, because it is 
more open to the eye ; but I hasten to observe, in 
the second place, that the mind is still more fearfully 
and wonderfully made. While there is something 
quite as striking in its energies, there is something 
yet darker in its sorrows and retributions. It re- 
quires thought to comprehend the greatness and 
glory of the power of thought. Consider, for ex- 
ample, the act of extemporaneous speaking, which 
is the most exciting and animated way in which 
the mind can be exerted. What flexibility, strength, 
and quickness there must be, to enable the mind to 
hold the subject in all its various bearings and rela- 
tions in full view, while at the same time it is em- 
ployed in working out single thoughts into fulness 
and finish, and not only making them perfect by 
themselves, but arranging their place and adjusting 
their proportion in reference to the whole ! At the 
moment that the speaker is uttering a sentence, he 



THE DISORDERED MIND. 



263 



has the outline of the subject and the memory of 
what he has said before him ; and while he puts the 
present thought into words, he must anticipate and 
prepare what is to follow immediately after, — keep- 
ing the various powers of attention and judgment, of 
memory and. imagination, in vigorous action, and all 
in perfect order, combining to produce conviction 
in the hearer's understanding or to make an impres- 
sion on his heart. 

But inspiring as it is to witness the triumph of in- 
tellectual action, there is here also a dark side of the 
picture which we cannot contemplate without con- 
cern and dread. How little it takes to destroy these 
powers, to deaden these sensibilities ! Even where 
there is no conscious transgression of the laws of 
life on the part of the sufferer, should there be but 
a slight derangement of the physical system, a dark- 
ness like that of the thunder-cloud may spread over 
the mind, so that it can see nothing as it is. The 
springs of happiness become bitter waters ; the best 
affections are changed into jealous passions : the 
lightest touch seems to scrape over the naked nerves 
of the soul : what was formerly the best enjoyment 
becomes the severest torture, and life is a burden 
which the poor wayfarer of life cannot bear. He is 
no longer himself; the power of choice and judg- 
ment passes from him. He is in that state which 
the ancients contemplated with fear and reverence, 
because, having ceased to order his way for himself, 
he is not responsible for what he does. His acts are 
not his own, but in some awful and mysterious man- 



264 



THE DISORDERED MIND. 



ner, which human wisdom cannot look into, he is 
working out the purposes of God. And who can 
look on man in that distressing state without a ten- 
der solemnity of feeling, — without the deepest sym- 
pathy for that dreadful suffering, in which that life 
for which a man will give all that he hath becomes 
so weary a load, that he turns with fond longing 
to the grave ? The clods of the valley are sweet unto 
him where he trusts to lay it down. 

But the most fearful thing about this disordered 
state of the mind is the light which it throws, and 
which perhaps it was meant to throw, upon our fu- 
ture existence. The irregular action of the mind is 
its strongest action ; as the body at such times is 
capable of mighty convulsive efforts, so the mind 
puts forth fierce and stormy energies, which are un- 
known in its calmer hours. And among these we 
find the memory quickened into wondrous life. 
Events which took place years ago, and seemed to 
leave no trace at all upon the mind, — words which 
were spoken in former days, and which seemed to 
die away in the breath that gave them being, — 
thoughts even, and emotions, which left no more 
traces than the last year's clouds have left in the sky, 
— are remembered at such times with perfect dis- 
tinctness and reality in all their parts, and come up, 
too, with a strength and vividness of impression like 
things of the present day ; or rather, they come like 
ghosts from bloody graves, surrounded with terrors 
which the living did not possess. This shows that 
the book of remembrance is in each one's memory ; 



THE DISORDERED MIND. 



265 



it is not now opened, but every thing is deeply re- 
corded there. The history of every sin is written 
where neither time nor tears can ever efface it. For- 
getfulness is only for a time ; the day shall come 
when every thing which we would fain forget shall 
stand out in livid light, — seen as it is, with no self- 
delusion to blind us to its guilt. Conscience, no 
longer blinded by earthly influences, and fully awake 
to its duty, shall read the full record of our former 
lives, and, if these have been unfaithful to Him who 
made us, go on to pronounce and execute our doom. 
Thus we can imagine how the memory, quickened 
into intenser life, shall make the mind itself a hell, 
more terrible than eye hath seen, or ear heard, or 
than ever entered the dismayed and shuddering 
heart. 

So, too, the manner in which the mind in its irreg- 
ular action clings to one painful thought — though 
in this world it is the portion of the innocent who 
are thus tried, for what reason we do not know — 
may be a foreshadowing of the manner in which 
remorse in a future world shall distress the guilty 
soul. One single dark and dismal thought before 
the mind, from which it cannot turn away, — always 
confronting it as if with a living eye of stern and 
gloomy upbraiding, — how it bends and breaks down 
the spirit into more than midnight gloom ! No other 
thoughts can call the attention from that one. It 
binds up all within into one concentrated agony. In 
the day it cries, — " Would to God it were night ! " 
in the darkness, " Would to God it were morning ! " 
23 



266 



THE DISORDERED MIND. 



but the day cometh, and also the night, bringing no 
change nor relief. That single thought seems an- 
chored like a heavy cloud over the soul ; no winds 
have power to sweep it from the sky. Though we 
know not what we shall be, we do at times have 
glimpses of the fearful powers which lie folded and 
sleeping in the soul, and which may hereafter come 
out, with a power which not even this form of men- 
tal suffering, dire as it is, will enable us to imagine 
now. 

In the third place, we are wonderfully and fear- 
fully made in what respects our spiritual nature. 
Wonderful it is what peace and satisfaction come, 
even in the most disastrous circumstances of life, to 
those whose consciences are living, whose affections 
are kept in action, and who turn with cheerful con- 
fidence to their heavenly Father. It is not pleasure, 
it is not what men call joy, I know ; but it is some- 
thing higher, surer, and better. It is a peace which 
passeth the understanding of those who have never 
known it ; no words can represent to them this 
beauty of holiness in such a manner as it deserves. 
On the other hand, fearful it is to see into what utter 
and hopeless insensibility and self-delusion the soul 
may fall. As the poor, superannuated ruin of a man 
believes himself more able and eloquent than in any 
former day, so may the person whose spirit is dead 
within him talk much of God and eternity, and 
wonder at the thoughtlessness of others, when his 
own religion is nothing but a dream, which the eter- 
nal morning will dispel. In all this wide world, 



THE DISORDERED MIND. 



267 



abounding as it does with things that sadden the 
heart, there is really nothing so fearful as the self- 
delusion of those who think themselves something 
when they are nothing ; for there is no suggestion 
nor warning that can reach them. They fold round 
their hearts the Sabbath garments of their mistaken 
and untrue devotion, and keep themselves in a slum- 
ber which nothing will break but the trump of the 
archangel at the judgment day. 

The question now arises, Why are we thus fear- 
fully made ? In a general view of the subject it is 
enough to reply, that a fine and delicate organization, 
such as God has given to man, must be easily dis- 
ordered. An organization of this kind is an advan- 
tage which necessarily brings evils along with it, and 
if we enjoy the one, we must also have the other. 
But why these evils should fall where they do, why 
such a weight of misery should fall on one more 
than another, why one should go through life com- 
paratively exempt from this sorrow, while another is 
bowed down with it to the grave, is what we know 
not. It is not revealed, because it does not concern 
ourselves and our duty. It is enough for us to know 
that the sight of these sufferings in others, and the 
patient and forbearing kindness which they require, 
give us the opportunity of forming virtues of the 
highest order. When sympathy answers to sympa- 
thy, and love replies to love, it is comparatively easy 
to be tender and true. But in those dark hours of 
unaccountable gloom, of impatient displeasure, of 
zealous and causeless suspicion, which sometimes 



268 



THE DISORDERED MIND. 



cloud the soul, it is hard for affection to sustain itself 
unbroken to the last. And this is the great triumph 
of our religion, that it kindles those never-setting 
stars of encouragement and guidance in life's most 
disastrous hours. It employs the instrumentality of 
suffering, as the artisan uses the furnace-fire, to form 
in us those affections which brighten the dreary path 
of life, and, like the pillar of fire resting on the mercy- 
seat when the long march was over, shall be our light 
and glory in that heaven to which the faithful go. 

We see, then, that all in this world, however pain- 
ful it may be, and all within ourselves, though our 
nature so often suffers, may help forward the great 
work of preparation. For this purpose all is wonder- 
fully made. As our minds dwell upon it, we dismiss 
the fear ; but the wonder grows. So it will ever be : 
our knowledge of ourselves and our experience of 
life will perpetually increase our admiration of the 
works and ways of God. We may submit ourselves 
to him, then, as a faithful Creator, w T hether he tries 
us w r ith suffering of the frame, with anguish of mind, 
or heavy desolation of soul. He orders all things 
well ; the end is not yet. " Wait on the Lord ; be 
of good courage, and he shall strengthen thy heart : 
wait, I say, on the Lord," 



SERMON XIII. 



PREPARATION FOR HEAVEN. 

PREPARE TO MEET THY GOD. AmOS iv. 12. 

Every one knows that this life is but the child- 
hood of existence. If the young will not look for- 
ward and prepare for the manly duties of life, it is 
altogether absurd to expect that they shall be re- 
spectable, useful, and happy: it is next to certainty 
that they will be just the reverse of all this. And 
if we who are here to be educated for another exist- 
ence, — we who are so severe upon the carelessness 
of the young, — if we should have it pressed home 
on ourselves in return, " You say this is a prepara- 
tory state ; where is your preparation ? v — -we might 
find it somewhat hard to reply. 

The truth is, that a great many, and not such as 
pass for bad men either, are making no sort of prep- 
aration for another life. In all that respects this 
world's gain, the eye of the lightning is not sharper 
than theirs. Perhaps in respect to intellectual im- 
provement they tax heavily the present moment to 
secure knowledge in time to come, and nothing can 
exceed the thoughtfulness and attention they bestow 
23* 



270 



PREPARATION FOR HEAVEN. 



in preparing the comfort of their declining years. 
But take one of these deliberate and sagacious men, 
ask him what duty he is doing because Christianity 
requires it ; ask what he can truly say he is doing 
or has ever done from a sacred sense of duty ; ask 
him if he is in the habit of cross-examining his con- 
science when it tells a flattering tale ; ask him if he 
makes a point of doing, not what pleases himself, 
but what will please God. If he answers as he 
would reply to his own heart, if he tells the truth, 
he will confess to you that he thinks of no such 
things. He is contented if he preserves a good 
moral character ; if he does not materially injure 
others, — or, in homely phrase, if he minds his own 
business and lets others alone, — he is quite easy as 
to his last account with God. 

All this is very well. Even though he is not 
tempted to do otherwise, though character, interest, 
and all inducements whatever lead him to observe, 
and never break, this line of conduct, we allow that, 
as far as it goes, it is duty, though it implies a no- 
tion of the importance and extent of duty which is 
extremely weak and low. But after giving all the 
praise due to this conduct, and perhaps a little more, 
the great question returns, What is there in all this 
that you call preparation for another existence ? All 
this begins and ends in the present world. In all 
this there is nothing serious, nothing devoted, noth- 
ing high, nothing which could not be done as well 
without Jesus Christ as with him. In fact, it all is 
done without him, and if this is preparation, such 



PREPARATION FOR HEAVEN. 



271 



persons expect to be saved without having the least 
regard for a Saviour. — they expect religion to save 
them without their paying any respect to its laws. 
And this is as wise as to expect to be restored to 
health by a medicine which they never have taken , 
or enlightened by a book which they have never 
read. 

There is no kind of doubt that many, and those 
not by any means foolish men, are in error here. 
They are moving on in the voyage of life as if they 
were sure of drifting to the right harbour. They 
feel no uneasiness because they see no land, and take 
no observations : — the very thing that ought to 
alarm them flatters them into confidence, and they 
are not startled till they dash upon the rock, or 
founder in the heart of the sea. 

What is the preparation required ? One would 
suppose that there could be no mistake here : but 
there are great and various errors, and they all re- 
sult from that passion in man to make the terms of 
acceptance with God as easy to himself as he can. 
Devotion and benevolence constitute this prepara- 
tion ; — in better words, the preparation is to love 
God with all the heart, and our neighbour as our- 
selves. 

Devotion, my friends, does not consist in solem- 
nity. There is a solemnity which passes for devo- 
tion, which men approve in themselves as devotion. 
Just as they take it for granted, that all who wear 
black are mourners, do they believe, that all whose 
manner is gloomy are profoundly religious at heart, 



272 



PREPARATION FOR HEAVEN. 



I dread this solemnity. It is too often artificial, un- 
consciously made up ; in its very best estate it is 
nothing more than a feeling, and a feeling which 
leads to no usefulness or improvement, and there- 
fore to no good. I dread this solemnity ; it makes 
those who have it feel so saint-like, while there is 
nothing of the Christian character under its broad, 
sable folds. The solemnity Christianity wants is 
that of a heart deeply engaged, interested, busy, in 
its duty. This deep interest in the work to be done 
will give an air of solemnity to the brow. Still, 
there is something beside the solemnity, — some- 
thing more and better than the solemnity ; and as 
habit makes* the labor of duty lighter, the eye re- 
gains its cheerfulness, and the shadow clears from 
the brow. Away with all solemnity except that 
produced by an awful sense of duty, — by the 
weight of the obligations of which the heart and 
hands are full. 

I call that man devout who feels and tries to feel 
the presence of God : who is not afraid nor unwill- 
ing to have the eye of God upon him, — who rather 
rejoices in it, knowing that it makes him more faith- 
ful ; who endeavours to conciliate God, not with 
flattery in long and unmeaning prayers, not by run- 
ning down himself and human nature, but by doing 
his will. Such a man prays, to make his requests 
unto God : such a man praises, because praise is the 
feeling of his heart ; but his greatest endeavour is to 
bring his thoughts and deeds into subjection to the 
Christian law ; and for this purpose he asks himself 



PRE PAR AT I OX FOR HEAVEN. 



273 



often whether he is doing right, — whether his course 
of life is what it should be. — whether, if the angel 
of death came this hour, he is prepared to meet his 
God. 

Devotion means devotedness, readiness to do and 
suffer every thing that pleases Gcd. Devotion means 
something more than prayer. There is many a 
prayer fervent in its utterance which has no devo- 
tion in it, because there is in the breast of him who 
makes it no devotedness to his heavenly Fathers 
will. This devotion is of our own forming, — it is 
not inspired ; the man who is really devout becomes 
so by long meditation on the works and character of 
God. True, there is devotion which attracts the 
gaze of men far more than this ; there is devotion 
which makes a show in the path of life, like the 
glass fragment you see by the way-side sparkling in 
the sun. You would take it for a diamond if you 
had not been deceived by it before. This is not the 
devotion which I wish for you : I would have de- 
vout lips, but not without devout lives. I would 
judge of the devotion by the life, and not of the life 
by the devotion. 

Again, the benevolence that makes part of this 
preparation, — it is an active desire to do good to 
men. Mark those words " active desire"; for the 
mere desire is nothing. Every one wishes Yv r ell 
enough for the happiness of others ; every one would 
help the happiness of others if he could do it with- 
out inconvenience to himself. Even those who in- 
jure others, were it not for the temptation to injure 



274 



PREPARATION FOR HEAVEN. 



them, would be ready enough to wish, and perhaps 
to do, them good. Far am I from believing that 
good-will to others is an uncommon thing. Xo : if 
wishing would make men what they should be, 
the whole world would be Christians. The mere 
desire is nothing ; you can place no dependence 
upon it : the active desire is a very different thing, — 
as different from the mere wish as the spirit of 
the selfish Epicurean from that of the self-denying 
martyr. 

But very often there is a selfishness in the midst 
of benevolence. There are those who are willing 
to do good, but will do it in their own way, — there- 
by showing that they are thinking quite as much of 
themselves as of others. Thus, in relieving the dis- 
tressed, — for there are persons distressed, and that 
with no fault of their own, — each one is apt to give 
what he values least. Here we must be on our 
guard. Let him who gives his money give what 
he values more, his attentions or his time ; let him 
who gives his services, if he values other things 
more, give them, in order to be sure that his very 
kindness is not selfish, or at least, that it has in it 
no other selfishness than the manly and honora- 
ble desire of securing one's interest in the future 
world. 

Even the benevolent must be on their guard ; they 
are far too apt to take as much with one hand as 
they give with the other. You will sometimes find 
that those who are liberal of wealth to others wound 
them with their neglect and scorn. You will find 



PREPARATION FOR HEAVEN. 



275 



those who, with a manner all kindness, encourage 
hopes of friendship which they never intend to re- 
deem. You will find those who will sit night after 
night by the bedside of the sick, and at the same 
time stab them with what the Scripture calls the 
edge of the tongue. Therefore inspiration tells us 
to - be perfect and entire, wanting nothing"; then 
we may know whether we are innocent merely 
because we are not tempted, whether Ave are kind 
from principle, or only from feeling. Mere feeling 
will not face the wind and tide : mere feeling will 
do good as long as it is pleasant, and no longer ; — 
principle is something worth having : it is patient, 
not easily discouraged, and enduring. 

One thing we must guard against with all our 
might, — not to let revengeful feelings have place in 
the heart. They come in disguise. How often you 
hear those who complain with no little bitterness 
that others have injured them say, that, for all that, 
they would do them a kindness if they had the 
power ! Still they cannot do them the kindness to 
wait for explanations : they cannot do them the 
kindness to put a favorable construction on their 
words and deeds : that is. they flatter themselves 
with thinking that they would do the greater kind- 
ness, though they deny the less. And suppose that 
they would do a kindness to their enemy ; — half 
the world would do the same, and be glad that they 
had the power. Christian benevolence means a great 
deal more than this ! 



276 



PREPARATION FOR HEAVEN. 



I have thus attempted to suggest, in general terms, 
what is included in the injunction, " Prepare to meet 
thy God." You may now, perhaps, expect me to 
describe the meeting itself. And possibly I might 
paint the end of all things in such a way as to strike 
the imagination. I might represent the archangel's 
trumpet sending its far and stormy voice over land 
and sea. I might paint the dead outbursting from 
their tombs, — crowding by millions round the judg- 
ment-seat, with a paleness deeper than that of death 
on every brow. I might represent the Son of Man, 
with raiment shining like the sun, speaking in low 
and deep tones the sentence that makes every heart 
cold with dismay. But if I could do it, if I could 
make you hear the thunder-crash with which the 
pillars of the universe fall, or show you the fire 
flashing out from the earth and every star till the 
universe is in flame, what purpose would be an- 
swered? I would rather, if I must dwell upon that 
tremendous vision, show you the sinner who stands 
solitary and apart, unconscious of the gaze of mil- 
lions, seeing not the fire, hearing not the earthquake 
as it murmurs by, his whole soul frozen into a fear- 
ful expectation of the judgment to come. But all 
these are terrors which may impress the imagination 
without mending the heart. I would have the good- 
ness of God lead you to repentance ; I would have 
you fear him now as much as you would fear him 
in the judgment day. 

I say, then, Prepare to meet thy God now ; pre- 



PREPARATION FOR HEAVEN. 



277 



pare to meet him in the intercourse of prayer ; make 
your hearts such as you are willing to throw open to 
him. He never can be nearer than he is now ; this 
preparation, if ever it will be wanted, is wanted now. 
I say again, then, In every hour of life " prepare to 
meet thy God." 



24 



SERMON XIV. 



RELIGION AND PHILOSOPHY. 

BEWARE LEST ANY MAN SPOIL YOU THROUGH PHILOSOPHY AND 

vain deceit. — Colossians ii, 8. 

More properly, " Beware lest any man spoil you 
through a vain, deceitful philosophy ? ' ; and this was 
the character of most of the wisdom of that day. 
Philosophy means the investigation of subjects with 
a desire to know all that can be known about them. 
But the wise men of that day, instead of studying 
Christianity to learn the reasonableness, the nature, 
and the application of its truths, employed them- 
selves in the endeavour to make Christianity harmo- 
nize with their own favorite systems ; and the result 
was, that the religion, as it came mended from their 
hands, retained very few of its original features. 

Bat are we to understand that philosophical in- 
vestigation should not be applied to the religion of 
Jesus Christ ? Most certainly not. This would be 
the same as to say that we must not reflect upon it. 
we must not study it, we must content ourselves 
with an unthinking submission to all its commands. 
So far from this, Christianity seems rather to invite 



RELIGION AND PHILOSOPHY. 



279 



man to consider it, to weigh its truths, to submit 
them to the most searching investigation, trusting 
that such investigation will result in a warmer ad- 
oration of the love in which the religion began, and 
a stronger desire to apply it to the great purpose for 
which God sent it down. 

It may be said, however, that philosophical in- 
vestigation of the subject of religion has sometimes 
led to infidelity. I do not believe it. There are 
cases enough in which infidelity has led to a certain 
sort of investigation, and there the result commonly 
is, as might be expected, that the previous distaste 
for Christian doctrine and duty is confirmed. But 
the investigation, as it is called, amounts to nothing 
more than a mere glance at the outside ; the infidel 
reasons, not about Christianity, but about what he 
takes to be Christianity, and these are two widely 
different things. Without going to the Scriptures to 
see what the subject is, he assumes that he is well 
acquainted with it ; and then, knowing nothing 
about its doctrines, knowing nothing about its pecu- 
liar feelings, he pretends to reason concerning that 
which he takes no pains to understand, and his in- 
vestigation "cometh in vanity and departeth in 
darkness n ; it ends in prejudice, as in prejudice it 
began. If you think I do infidels injustice, I would 
ask you to show me one who ever seems to have 
comprehended that the elements of the religion are 
love to God and love to man. These are the foun- 
dation, these the leading principles, these run through 
all Christianity, and yet not one unbeliever ever 



2S0 



RELIGION AND PHILOSOPHY. 



seems to have suspected it. Like the South Sea 
Islanders when they first saw white men. unbeliev- 
ers mistake the dress for part of the body and the 
living form. Because they disapprove the fashion 
of the drapery, which human hands have idly and 
needlessly thrown round it. they condemn its pro- 
portions, and say that it is not of God. 

But while philosophical investigation may and 
should be applied to the truths revealed by Chris- 
tianity, there is a spirit in which such researches 
should be conducted, — in fact, must be conducted. 
— in order to lead to truth. Nor is this peculiar to 
Christianity. There is a right spirit in which the 
search for knowledge on any subject must be con- 
ducted, or it will lead to darkness rather than light. 
And that is the spirit of humility. Humility is the 
low-browed arch under which one must stoop in 
passing, but under which he must pass before he 
can reach any improvement, whether in science, 
morals, or religion. When this humility is wanting, 
philosophy — that is. the true-hearted love of im- 
provement, united with the power of gaining it — 
is wanting. Still, self-confidence and presumption 
often usurp and are permitted to bear its name. 
They formed the •'•vain, deceitful philosophy." 
which prevailed in the Apostle's time, and which 
probably will prevail, under one name or another, to 
the last ages of the world. 

Again : while it is allowed, then, that Christianity 
is a proper subject for philosophical investigation, — 
that is, a subject concerning which men may think. 



RELIGION AND PHILOSOPHY. 



281 



and study, and inquire, — there is also another essen- 
tial condition belonging to all such investigations, 
namely, the acknowledgment of the supreme author- 
ity of the word of God. Jesus Christ has brought 
us a revelation of truths which man could never 
have known without him. I say, could never have 
known ; for surely four thousand years were enough 
to make the experiment. Through all that long tract 
of ages, there were powerful and active minds, — 
prophets and sages, — earnestly desiring to look into 
those subjects, and constantly finding, to their sorrow, 
that man could never scale the heavens by strides of 
human wisdom. And now that the word of God has 
come, it requires but little humility to acknowledge 
its authority to be final on subjects like this. In 
fact, there is but one alternative ; it must be either 
paramount, commanding authority on these subjects, 
or no authority at all. Accordingly, you find that 
men who submit all their investigations to that in- 
fallible test go on in swift and sure religious im- 
prorement, while those who begin without a proper 
reverence for that divine authority unsettle every 
thing in their own minds, remove the old landmarks 
without setting up any other, and end at last in deep 
hostility to the Saviour, who, as long experience 
proves, must either be all or nothing in the minds 
and hearts of men. 

Since humility and reverence are things essential 
to all who would study these subjects with profit 
and success, let us consider how little reason there is 
24* 



282 



RELIGION AND PHILOSOPHY. 



for self-reliance, and how much we need that author- 
ity which the religion of Jesus Christ supplies. 

It is said that there was some light on these sub- 
jects before Christianity, and that there might be 
now, without Christianity. Yes, there is light at 
midnight before the moon has risen, and when the 
stars are clouded ; there was light in the beginning 
of creation before the sun appeared in the sky ; but 
it was faint and dim, it answered no purpose of 
cheering nor guidance. And so it is with the spirit- 
ual light which is found where Christianity has not 
come. No doubt, the inspiration of God has com- 
municated something to every human mind ; no 
doubt, that, when the spiritual powers are brought 
into action, the ideas of God and eternity begin to 
present themselves, and a shadowy line between 
right and wrong begins to be drawn ; but the whole 
history of man in former ages shows that " man by 
wisdom knew not God," — knew not any of those 
things which it most concerns him to know. He 
was able to discern that there was a God, but nc$ to 
discern, in any thing like its completeness and per- 
fection, the character of God ; — that was left for 
Christianity to reveal. He was able to look forward 
to a future life, but he did not know that it was a 
state of just and perfect retribution. Evidently, 
however, to know this and no more, — to know that 
there is a God without knowing the relation in 
which we stand to him, and that eternity is before 
us without knowing what qualifications we need to 
make us happy for ever, — would only be that sad 



RELIGION AND PHILOSOPHY. 



283 



light which makes darkness visible, — a knowledge 
which would only make us more keenly alive to our 
need of more knowledge. After the human mind 
had reached forward, with intense longing and des- 
perate energy, to look into these subjects, and all in 
vain, God condescended to reveal them ; and now 
shall man show his gratitude by saying or feeling 
that he could have learned all this of himself? Be- 
fore Christianity, there was no upward tendency in 
human nature ; all was downward, — downward into 
deeper corruption, — deepest at the moment when 
the star of salvation rose. Surely whoever consid- 
ers what man was, and always, without Christianity, 
will see that philosophy might as well pretend to 
kindle a sun at midnight, as undertake to enlighten 
the darkness, relieve the spiritual wants, and console 
the sorrows of a lost world. 

But, in the second place, much is said of the light 
within us, and some appear to feel as if it super- 
seded the necessity of any illumination from on high. 
But what is it ? Nothing but a power of vision like 
that which resides in the bodily eye. It is com- 
pared to the eye to explain to us what it is. Now 
does any one suppose that light originates in the 
eye, or that the power of sight would help us unless 
there were light by which we may see ? It is the 
same to the body that a window is to a house, — 
the avenue through which the light passes in. And 
this light within is nothing but a power of moral 
sight, by which we may discern the moral and re- 
ligious truths presented, and therefore, so far from 



284 



RELIGION AND PHILOSOPHY. 



rendering light unnecessary, would itself be useless 
to us if there were not light by which it is enabled 
to see. Jesus Christ is the light of the moral world. 
He is the source and fountain of that light by which 
our spiritual sight is able to discern the truths which 
it is so much concerned to know. Without him. the 
spiritual sight would be as helpless as the eyes in 
utter darkness ; so that the light within us, of which so 
much is said, only increases our dependence on him. 

This being the case, it is evident, that, except we 
possess and enjoy the light without, we can have no 
benefit from the light within, and nothing can be 
vainer than to speak of being guided by this inner 
light, to the exclusion of the other. Guided by the 
eyesight without any light from the sun ? While 
he shines, we may feel as if we could do without 
him, but not so when the horror of deep darkness 
falls. Those who have depended on the inner light, 
without regard to the other, have gone fearfully 
astray. It would not be easy to number the crimes, 
the unnatural and revolting crimes, committed by 
some who thought they were obeying the dictation 
of God within them, and at the same time refused 
to consult his revealed and written law. And now, 
when we hear men speak as if this inner light alone 
were sufficient for our guidance, it is as if they should 
say, — " Break down the light-house which for ages 
has shone through the storms, conducting thousands 
of voyagers safe into the harbour ; there is no need 
of it, for each vessel can carry a rushlight at its own 
masthead, and thus find her way through the entrance 



RELIGION AND PHILOSOPHY. 



285 



channel, winding, and rough, and rockbound though 
it is." She would probably find her way to the bot- 
tom, and he who trusts to the inner light alone for 
guidance will also be in danger of shipwreck of the 
soul. 

But the question arises, What is the province of 
philosophical investigation in respect to Christianity ? 
Certainly it is to look into the nature of the truths 
which it reveals, that we may learn their adaptation 
to our nature. As soon as they were first revealed, 
they were known ; but the wonderful manner in 
which they were suited to our wants and feelings, — 
to every man's wants and feelings, — the manner in 
which they were suited to the benefit and improve- 
ment of the human race, — could not be at once un- 
derstood. This was a thing to be studied. Expe- 
rience threw light upon it ; observation threw light 
upon it ; philosophical investigation may throw yet 
more light upon it, because mankind are constantly 
passing into new circumstances and conditions, and 
the beauty and power of holiness are displayed with 
new glory. Many a direction there is which is con- 
stantly unfolding itself more and more to human 
eyes. " Overcome evil with good/' for example ; — 
who could have foreseen, even a century ago, what 
wonders it would work in prisons, — how it would 
reform the whole process of education, — how wide- 
ly and successfully it would be applied ? This is 
what is meant by the light which is continually 
breaking from the word of God. Its truths do not 
unfold themselves to unobservant eyes ; the more 



286 



RELIGION AND PHILOSOPHY. 



they are studied and pondered, the more do they dis- 
close for the improvement and blessing of man. 
Here is the province for philosophy, — not to sit in 
judgment on the doings of the Most High, but its 
field is the spiritual world; all its researches there 
will result in some new discoveries of Divine power 
and love. Exhausted it never can be. Science has 
not yet travelled over a thousandth part of the won- 
ders of the visible world, and the moral and spiritual 
world — so much higher and more extended — can- 
not be entirely explored so long as eternity endures. 

Why is it, then, that philosophy has so often be- 
come vain and deceitful when applied to subjects 
like this ? It is because a heathen philosophy is ap- 
plied to Christian truth, which is like using a foot- 
rule to measure distances in the sky. It is because 
men undertake to investigate without Christ what 
they never could have known any thing of without 
him. Under these circumstances, it can go but little 
way ; it stops at the outside. It can see nothing 
more than a personification of the laws of nature in 
Him who is above all, and through all, and in all. 
It can see nothing more than an ordinary man in 
Him who spake as never man spake, and who was 
what never man was. It can see nothing more than 
a continued mortal life in the existence beyond the 
grave. And how is it possible to understand, or 
hope to understand, the truths which our Saviour 
has revealed, if we try to search out, with our inch 
of candle, what it takes all the blaze of the Sun of 
righteousness to make clear to human eyes ? 



RELIGION AND PHILOSOPHY. 



287 



The truth is, that Christ is the Master and the end 
of all true philosophy ; the highest and happiest ob- 
ject it can propose to itself is to lead men to him for 
instruction, to confirm his authority, and to establish 
his empire in the hearts of men. If in the unhappy 
confusion of controversy he has lost any thing of our 
reverence, — if he whose right it is to reign, and 
whose kingdom is within, has been dethroned from 
his true place in our veneration and love, — we are 
not the persons by whom the light of God's word is 
to be drawn forth and set before the eyes of men. 
Whoever sincerely desires to know the truth will 
look for it as it is in Jesus Christ, will hang on his 
lips, will treasure his every word. His authority in 
the balance will weigh all other down. As for hu- 
man authority, let it be regarded according to its 
claims to reverence ; as for human claims, man may 
sift them as he will, for these are in his reach ; 
among these he may hope to discern the false from 
the true. But if he treats Him whom God has sanc- 
tified and sent into the world merely as a human be- 
ing, and deals with his disclosures as freely as if they 
were human things, he does not see things as they 
are, — he is not in the way to understand them ; the 
very principle with which he begins, the first steps 
in his inquiry, show that they will be for ever hidden 
from his eyes. 

We often hear the present spoken of as the age of 
philosophy. It is an age of restlessness, an age of 
change, an age of action ; but to call it an age of phi- 
losophy — that is, of calm, deliberate inquiry after 



288 



RELIGION AND PHILOSOPHY. 



truth — is doing it an honor which it does not yet 
deserve. An age when innovation is regarded as the 
same with reform, — an age when zeal often becomes 
mad passion, and indifference often passes for liberal- 
ity, — an age when philanthropy is so apt to grow 
savage, and benevolence proves its love for some of 
the human race by the intenseness of its hatred to 
others, — an age in which the things of God are no 
more respected than the things of Caesar, — is not an 
age of philosophy, of calm, sound, and healthy inves- 
tigation, whatever else it may be. No doubt its result 
will be good. The waters may give out their virtues 
when they are troubled, but it is not the time to 
analyze them to discover the sources of their healing 
virtue. It is an age which signifies " the removing 
of those things that are shaken " ; the time is come 
for perishable things to perish, and the world must 
let them go. But " those things that cannot be 
shaken " will remain, and of all things the firmest 
and most unshaken is the Rock of Ages. The floods 
may come and the storms beat against it, but the 
Rock and all that is built thereon shall endure. 

A 



SERMON XV. 



THE SECRET OF HAPPINESS. 

WHO KNOWETH WHAT IS GOOD FOR MAN IN THIS LIFE ? — 

Ecclesiastes vi. 12. 

Few persons ever had so much reason to ask this 
question as the writer to whom this book is ascribed. 
A sovereign, powerful and magnificent, richly gifted 
with all outward advantages that Heaven could be- 
stow, — eminent above all others for his wisdom, 
but in the application of that wisdom to his life 
irregular and unfaithful, and therefore a restless and 
unhappy man, — he had made some great mistake 
in life, and he felt that it was too late to repair it. 
He could only lament that life was not to him what 
God meant it should be, and what it might easily 
have been. 

But this error, and the consequences of it, are 
shared by numberless others. Any observer must 
be struck, painfully struck, with the sight of man- 
kind, — each having an existence which God regards 
as a blessing and a treasure, but not many really re- 
joicing in it, not many finding true happiness in it, 
— all conscious that something is wrong and some- 
25 



290 



THE SECRET OF HAPPINESS. 



thing wanting, but not knowing where the difficulty- 
lies, — and therefore pressing on, in the vain hope 
that new accessions of those things which have 
brought no satisfaction with them, that some fortu- 
nate accident, or perhaps that the lapse of time, will 
bring them that enjoyment of existence, that full 
and deep enjoyment of existence, which as yet they 
have never found. There is not one in ten thou- 
sand who understands the value and blessing of life, 
a great proportion of mankind considering it only as 
something better than the grave or the dark future. 
Having thus no comprehension of its use and worth, 
they suffer it to run to waste ; they wait through 
the days of their appointed time ; when death comes, 
they shut their eyes, take the leap in the dark, and 
die at last without wisdom, as they have lived, — 
clinging to life only from their dread of that which 
lies beyond it. 

You will observe, too, that it is not those who are 
most severely tried in life who are most apt to re- 
gard it thus. The heaviest laden are not those who 
move most heavily ; the disparaging tone in which 
life is spoken of is seldom heard from their lips. 
They often seem to have some revelation of the 
value and blessing of existence which is not made 
to others. They place a higher estimate upon it ; 
darkened and desolated as life is to them, they feel 
more profoundly than ever before how great a gift 
it is. Their misfortunes are like the earthquake, 
which rent the veil of the temple and disclosed the 
golden sanctuary, never opened to common eyes be- 



THE SECRET OF HAPPINESS. 



291 



fore ; they have learned " the power of an endless 
life," — and all is changed to their view. 

If it is thus true of thousands, that they do not 
understand the worth of existence, if they knew not 
what can be made of it, or what it was meant to be, 
there can hardly be an inquiry of more general in- 
terest than the one proposed in the text, — il Who 
knoweth what is good for man in this life ? " 

And, first, in the domestic relations, who knoweth 
what is good for man ? This condition of existence, 
assembling in small circles those who are most nearly 
connected with each other, undoubtedly was intend- 
ed to afford a retreat, a resting-place, to which man, 
when worn and weary with the conflicts of troubled 
life abroad, might " flee away and be at rest." The 
very name of home sounds like a benediction ; not 
a word ever passes from human lips that goes so di- 
rectly to every heart. And yet in how many dwell- 
ings some element of unhappiness finds its way, 
and changes all its light and blessing into cold 
and dreary gloom ! How many a cottage looks 
sweetly under the green arch of foliage that hangs 
over it, inspiring the thought in the wayfarer that 
there he should rejoice to spend his days ! How 
many a stately mansion in the city awakens the 
feeling in those who pass by, that the inmates must 
surely be happy ! And yet a nearer acquaintance 
with such places shows us pale anxiety, sullen alien- 
ation, fiery discord, or perhaps sins more deadly, if 
any such there are, dwelling in the humble and the 
splendid mansion, and changing that which we im- 



292 



THE SECRET OF HAPPINESS. 



agined almost a heaven into so near a resemblance of 
hell, that any one who had ever tasted its bitterness 
would be relieved to escape from it into a dungeon 
or a grave. 

Yes. many examples there are of those who have 
pledged their affections to each other, yet still have 
separate interests, unsympathizing feelings, so that 
the relation, which might have been a source of the 
purest happiness, becomes a flowing fountain of woe. 
Many examples there are of parents suffering more 
from the selfish coldness of living children, than 
others who mourn for the dead. What is worse, 
there are parents who have repelled the young affec- 
tions of their children by their sternness or severity, 
and thus have done them an injury which they 
never can repair. Many examples there are of broth- 
ers or sisters indulging bitter passions, either self- 
ishly indifferent to each other, or selfishly exacting, 
till they spread a winter of discontent and sorrow 
in the places where they dwell. And who will 
show what is good for those in whom life is thus 
depraved and perverted ? 

The common resort is one which does not reach 
the disorder to which it is applied. It is. in the 
young, successive plans of transient pleasure, which, 
however, they cannot truly enjoy, because they 
must carry themselves, that is, their discordant pas- 
sions, along with them wherever they go. Per- 
sons farther advanced in life think to find relief by 
extending their accommodations, — by making im- 
provements in the grounds about the mansion, or 



THE SECRET OF HAPPINESS. 293 

more tasteful arrangements within ; as if whiting the 
outside of a sepulchre would remove its dreariness 
and gloom. The sorrow remains heavy and cold as 
ever, and nothing can be done to relieve it till the 
heart awakes to the profound significance of the 
word which inspiration most delights to speak, — till 
love, that word of power, is learned by heart ; and 
then no miracle ascribed of old to charm or spell 
ever approached, in the greatness and suddenness 
of its changes, to the wonders love can do. He 
finds that, in the only true sense of the expression, 
his love must begin at home. Every kind and 
amiable feeling cherished in his own heart is felt 
in the hearts of others ; he is not obliged to exert an 
influence upon them ; it is not he, but the love 
which inspires him, which subdues their passions, 
softens their unkindness, and brings their feelings 
into sympathy with his own. Having the spirit of 
love within, he may trust to it to make them feel 
its power ; as the keeper of the lighthouse has only 
to kindle the lamp, and it will cause itself to shine, 
guiding the course and rejoicing the hearts of travel- 
lers on the dark sea. 

If we turn next to active life, whether busy or 
social, we see there also the same evidence that 
some great mistake has been made. The world, 
that is, the community of men whom we call the 
world, has a prevailing expression, like a single hu- 
man face ; and that expression is restless, careworn, 
discontented. The lines of peace and repose are 
never to be traced there, any more than on the sur- 
25* 



294 



THE SECRET OF HAPPINESS. 



face of the ocean. There is something which tells, 
as plainly as words could say it ; that mankind have 
not found what they are seeking for; and there is 
no encouragement, even to themselves, that they ever 
will find it in the wayward paths which they tread. 
They are sensible of the difficulty ; they are deeply 
conscious of the want ; but the remedy for this pre- 
vailing uneasiness they do not see. Some make 
experiment of recreations, in which they carry about 
the burden of their cares, not knowing how to lay 
them down ; others try change of circumstances, as 
if outward arrangements could of themselves effect 
a change within ; while by far the greater number, 
seeing no other resort, plunge more deeply into 
worldly cares, thus increasing the pain which was 
heavy enough before. 

Will no one stand still and hear Christianity when 
it says, — " This is the way ; walk ye in it " ? Is 
the strain, sweet as angels use, in which it speaks of 
love, always to be unheard and unregarded? Some- 
times there are those who half awake to the com- 
prehension of the truth, that they can serve them- 
selves best by serving others. Startled with the 
discovery, they tremble at their former selfishness : 
they dash hastily into any plan of benevolence that 
stands nearest. Their zeal arises from fear and self- 
upbraiding, not from love in the heart ; and it is 
manifested, not by their devotion to humanity, but 
their fierce reproaches against those who do not go 
with them. Hence proceed the savage philanthro- 
pists, the unregenerate reformers, the unsanctified 



THE SECRET OF HAPPINESS. 



295 



Christians, who say so much and accomplish so lit- 
tle ; — accomplish little because they carry their 
worldly passions with them into their new course of 
life, and are awakened only to the sin and danger of 
selfish indifference to prevailing evils, without having 
learned the spirit of their Master, — without entering 
into sympathy with love, the only power by which 
evil in ourselves or others is ever to be done away. 

There is nothing in which our want of faith in 
Jesus Christ appears more plainly and sadly than in 
this unbelief in the power of love. He tells us that 
it is the only secret of happiness, the only element 
of power ; it is the mystery of heaven, which, 
though revealed and opened, is left a mystery still. 
He assures us that the only way to satisfy the wants 
of our immortal nature, and to remove the uneasi- 
ness and distaste of life, — the only possible way to 
reach that contented peace and serene repose which 
are God's divinest blessings, — is to cherish the spirit 
of love ; not as it is abridged and misinterpreted by 
our own selfish passions, but as it was set forth in 
the words, and shone unclouded in the life, of our 
heavenly Master. But how few there are who be- 
lieve him ! While thousands are sadly and earnestly 
asking, — "What is good for man in this life?" 
there is not one in a thousand who receives, or un- 
derstands, or acts upon, his reply. And this world 
never will be radiant, as it was meant to be, with 
happiness and praise, till his favorite word, "love/ 1 
in its fulness, and depth, and power of meaning, 
gains a welcome in the hearts of men. 



296 



THE SECRET OF HAPPINESS. 



Again : the religious life, — how widely its true 
character is often misunderstood ! The great pro- 
portion of those who live in Christian lands take 
shelter from the remonstrances of their conscience 
behind certain sacred forms. To these observances 
they point as the signs that they are faithful, when 
these may be only easy substitutes for faithfulness 
and devotion, fatally misleading the soul. What is 
it to attend the service of devotion, if only the form 
is present, while the mind and heart — while the man 
— is away ? Even those who come to the Lord's 
table, and openly profess to be his followers, often 
find comfort in the thought of making this profes- 
sion, when, all the while, it is not a true expression 
of their feeling, — it is a sign of that which is not 
within ; they make no effort to become what they 
declare it is the desire of their hearts to be. These 
outward manifestations, these solemn forms, may be 
the means of cherishing religious principle : but 
when they are made the substitutes for it, the whole 
becomes a delusion, — it is believing a lie. 

There are those, too, who, in asking what is good 
in the religious life, turn to the past, not concerning 
themselves with their present character, but rejoicing 
to think of some former transitions of feeling which 
they have passed through. But in most cases, these 
changes, like the passage of the Red Sea, only bring 
men to the edge of their field of duty and trial ; they 
have still to struggle painfully through the wilder- 
ness, in order to reach the promised land. Besides, 
whence this reliance on past states of character ? 



THE SECRET OF HAPPINESS. 



297 



The question is, What are we now ? Our former 
emotions no more describe us as we are now in the 
sight of God, than the weather-signs of the last year's 
almanac apply to the present spring. I have known 
those, who, after going through a sudden change, 
suddenly changed back again without knowing it. 
Nay, it is not an uncommon thing for a sudden re- 
lapse to follow a sudden restoration. Appearances 
are kept up, the forms are regarded, the words are 
solemn, but the heart is where it was before. No, 
not where it was before ; for it will never be so easy 
to be impressed again. 

In truth, nothing is to be depended upon as a sign 
of the religious life but love ; without it, you are 
nothing. Indulge any jealousy, any suspicion, any 
unkind feeling to any being whatsoever, and you 
have not the Saviour's spirit. You must also have 
a strong, filial feeling of love to your heavenly Fa- 
ther ; for unless you can receive gratefully what 
he sends you, and rejoice in him under all circum- 
stances and changes, you have not that trust and 
confidence which are the beauty of holiness, — the 
joy and glory of a faithful son. Alas, that the great 
change which turns the heart towards its Father 
should have been presented in a manner so mechan- 
ical, so formal, so much more full of profession than 
of feeling, that the voice which calls us to repent- 
ance finds no answering emotions, no right under- 
standing of its summons, no glad and grateful up- 
rising of all within to do reverence to its God ! 

O, when shall we understand the deep and serious 



298 



THE SECRET OF HAPPINESS. 



meaning of life ? When will it dawn upon us what 
life may be made, and what God intended it should 
be ? When we see the spring coming forth in glory 
and love, when we feel its breathing incense, and 
hear the rich music of its voice in the morning sky, 
are we not impressed with the difference — the fear- 
ful difference — between the rich loveliness of awak- 
ening nature, and the barren, heavy chillness which 
prevails in so many hearts ? This is not life : many, 
many there are who have not begun to live. They 
move and have a being : but the treasures of feeling, 
the glorious endeavours, the warm-hearted affections, 
which form the true charm of existence, they do not 
in the least understand. How many will die with- 
out ever having lived ! How many will see with sur- 
prise and sorrow, when they reach another existence, 
how much they might have done, how much they 
might have enjoyed, how much they have lost, in 
those days of mortal existence which can return no 
more ! 

Here we must feel how much depends on our- 
selves. If we turn to God with filial confidence, 
we shall find happiness flowing into our hearts like 
sunbeams, waking all within into glorious joy, dis- 
solving the ice of our selfishness, and calling new and 
beautiful affections into life within, like the verdure 
and flowers of spring. And if we can only turn affec- 
tionately to the beings that surround us, we shall be 
struck with astonishment how the world of human- 
ity, that now looks desert-like and dreary, opens its 
treasures of glory and love to our souls. Do not 



THE SECRET OF HAPPINESS. 299 

treat it as a fancy. The words are true, for they are 
God's. Whoever will make the experiment, in good 
faith and with the heart, will confess that he finds 
happiness beyond his youthful dreams. If any would 
know what is good for him in life, it is this, — to 
love God as his Father, and the beings around him 
as his brethren. Let him do what is here required, 
and he soon will wonder at his long insensibility ; he 
will ask where all these treasures of feeling have 
been hidden ; he will be lost in shame for his hewing 
out so many cisterns, when the waters of life were 
all the while flowing untasted at his feet. 



SERMON XVI. 



OFFENCES OF THE TONGUE. 

IF ANY MAN OFFEND NOT IN WORD, THE SAME IS A PERFECT MAN, 
AND ABLE ALSO TO BRIDLE THE WHOLE BODY. — James iii. 2. 

Any one who reads the Scriptures for his own 
personal improvement is often struck with this, that 
the sacred writers attach the most serious importance 
to duties of which men make but little account. 
So here ; one who knows how lightly Christians 
regard the duty of not offending in word is im- 
pressed with the solemnity with which the Apostle 
treats the obligation, — looking upon the whole char- 
acter as concerned in it : for he says, whoever is 
faithful in this respect is a thorough man, strong in 
self-mastery, equal to all the duties of life. 

He considers faithfulness or unfaithfulness in this 
respect as a sure indication of the presence or want 
of Christian principle ; — yes, the surest, for it is 
only in unguarded hours that his character appears 
precisely as it is. In most actions there is some de- 
liberation ; — not much, but far more than in our 
words. The latter flow carelessly and unthought of 
from the tongue ; they come, as is said, from the 



OFFENCES OF THE TONGUE. 



301 



overflowing of the heart. If we could see the 
thought, we should *see the character in its exact 
form, color, and bearing ; but this is for the eye of 
God alone. We are compelled to look at the out- 
ward appearance, and there is nothing in the out- 
ward appearance which gives us a truer revelation of 
what is within than the words. 

This Apostle also calls our attention to the effect 
which the management of the tongue has upon the 
life. It is, he says, as the bit to the horse or the 
rudder to the vessel ; it determines which way we 
shall go. Thus he thinks that a mams course is not 
only indicated, but also shaped, by his conduct in 
this respect. And really, when we consider how 
men talk themselves into any thing, — how, by say- 
ing a thing often, they come to believe it, however 
false it may be, — how easily they become insensible 
to the shame and danger of any thing which they 
constantly defend, — and how many intrench them- 
selves behind a cloud of words, when hard pressed 
by their conscience or the charges of other men, — 
we can see how it should be so : we can see a man's 
words may be a determining power, not only show- 
ing what he is, but making him what he is to be for 
this world and the other. 

There is another view which he takes of the sub- 
ject, which is new and strange to many. He says 
that harsh and bitter language cannot come from a 
good heart. Men sometimes appear to think other- 
wise ; — they think the heart may be good and kind 
when the words are harsh and severe. But not so 
26 



302 



OFFENCES OF THE TONGUE. 



the Apostle ; he says, the same fountain does not 
send forth salt and fresh water ; however full and 
flowing the fresh fountain may be, if a brackish 
spring flows into it, it takes but little to spoil the 
whole for the use of man. The wayfarer perishing 
with thirst comes to it with hope and pleasure, but 
turns away with a heavy heart. 

But let us look a little more nearly at some of 
those offences of the tongue which the Apostle con- 
siders so dangerous to the souls of men. 

First, there are those sharp and angry words of 
which we hear so many in the world. " Thou shalt 
love thy neighbour as thyself" is the Christian com- 
mand, which all profess to obey ; — but what a com- 
mentary on it may be found in the intercourse of 
Christians with each other ! How often do we see 
the flashing eye and the cheek flushed with passion, 
and hear the most savage and bitter retorts and replies 
from lips which are also opened in prayer to God, — 
how sincerely, how acceptably, we must leave it for 
eternity to tell ! Men think very little of these 
things ; the passion subsides, and they feel as if all 
was the same as before. But no. It is not the 
same as before. There is mischief done more than 
meets the eye. As each one of these autumnal 
storms affects the foliage and hurries on the wintry 
desolation, does each and every storm of passion 
leave much unseen injury, though perhaps few vis- 
ible traces in the heart. How easily men delude 
themselves on this subject ! After one of these ex- 
plosions they become reconciled, and think that 



OFFENCES OF THE TONGUE. 303 



those whom they have injured forgive and forget. 
But no ; to forgive is one thing, to forget is another : 
perhaps they do forgive, but they do not forget. 
Other injuries may be forgotten, new acts of friend- 
ship efface the memory of former wrongs, but the 
wound given by the sharp edge of the tongue does 
not heal over. If you have ever spoken contempt- 
uously of any one, and think that he has forgotten it, 
you will find, that, although he may treat you kindly, 
he remembers such things longer than you. 

It is impossible to over-estimate the injury which 
is done by these hasty excesses. Human beings are 
connected with each other by many fine and del- 
icate ties ; and this flame of hasty anger burns them 
like tow. At every flash, some of them snap asun- 
der, and there is no power that can replace them. 
Thus it is with parents and children, with husbands 
and wives, with brothers and sisters, with friends 
and neighbours ; — the bands of love which should 
unite them are gone, — burned away by these quick 
fires of passion. What matters it if the fire is out ? 
what has been consumed cannot be restored from its 
ashes. 

Again : there is a sort of violent language where 
there is not much anger, but rather malice and bit- 
terness strongly felt and strongly expressed, and, 
strange as it may seem, considering what an open 
and presumptuous offence it is, indulged in without 
the least consciousness of sin. There is a tendency 
to extravagance and excess of every kind at the 
present day. You see it in men's movements ; you 



304 OFFENCES OF THE TONGUE. 



hear it in their words : every epithet which they 
use, in the most trifling matters, is always in the 
superlative degree. If they have not met a friend 
for some time, they call it an age ; if they praise 
another, they exalt him to the skies ; if they would 
censure, they degrade him in the same proportion. 
And when they come to discussions on subjects in 
which they are interested, they not only have the 
same excess in the statement of their opinions ; their 
partialities and aversions are also expressed in the 
same high-colored language, which always over-steps 
the strict line of truth, and does outrageous injustice 
to those who oppose them, representing them as lost 
to every virtue and deep in every sin. How little 
moral sensibility there is in relation to this subject 
appears from the manner of some who think it a 
crime to " smite with the fist of wickedness," but 
indemnify themselves for this forbearance by using 
the hardest terms of reproach which the language 
affords ; — as if the bands of love bound nothing but 
the hands ; as if, not striking with the sword, they 
might strike the harder with the edge of the tongue. 
And while they indulge to the utmost in this way 
their resentment and revenge, they conceive that 
they are following Him, who, when he was reviled, 
answered not again. 

The most painful exhibition we ever see of this 
kind of violent language is witnessed in the excit- 
ing times of party. To this the Apostle's strong 
terms, " earthly, sensual, devilish,* 5 would most fitly 
apply. If the things which come out of the mouth 



OFFENCES OF THE TONGUE. 



305 



defile a man, surely our land is defiled beyond the 
power of the elements to cleanse it by this flood of 
slander and abuse which pours out from the thou- 
sand and ten thousand mouths of party. There is 
something appalling in this cannibal spirit, perfectly 
unscrupulous, perfectly hateful, in which so many 
indulge with perfect unconsciousness of their guilt 
and danger, though to a superior being who listened 
to their voice it would seem as if the world had 
broken entirely loose from the moral government 
of God. 

In the intercourse of social life there are many 
things which show how difficult, and yet how ne- 
cessary, it is to apply religious principle to the words ; 
— difficult, because we do not think what we are 
doing. But we ought to think, it is our duty to 
think, what we are doing, and the neglect of this 
duty is the last thing that we can plead in excuse 
for injurious language, or any other sin. Stern lan- 
guage that of our Saviour, — " For every idle word 
that men shall speak, they shall give an account in 
the day of judgment." Whatever we may now 
think of it, we shall find that his warning is true. 
Any observer of social life must know that " idle " 
words are almost always injurious words ; such con- 
versation is very apt to turn upon the follies, infirm- 
ities, and sins of others. There are many who en- 
joy ridicule cast upon others, and many also who 
are ready to cast it, showing off their penetrating 
discernment and power of sarcasm, without reflect- 
ing that they are guilty of inhumanity, — that 
26 * 



306 



OFFENCES OF THE TONGUE. 



every indulgence of the kind is a sin against God 
and his law of love ; without reflecting, too, that 
every indulgence of the kind is exerting a petrifying 
power upon their own hearts. The Apostle main- 
tains that such indulgence is evidence and cause of 
a bad heart. Is he not right ? You may make 
yourself acceptable to your associates by entertain- 
ing them in such a manner ; you may be pleasant 
when you are pleased, — pleasant to those with 
whom you are pleased ; for even the publicans can 
go as far as this. But the heart from which such 
things proceed is a bad heart to carry into eternity, 
— a bad one to throw open at the judgment-seat of 
Christ. 

There are many ways in which the law of love is 
broken in the social intercourse of life, broken by 
that thoughtless malice which is so common, but 
which, however thoughtless, is malice still. Strange 
that men should consider it an excuse, to say they 
did not think what harm they were doing ! Intox- 
ication is no excuse for transgression. It rather adds 
the guilt of drunkenness to that of the other sin. 
So thoughtlessness itself is an offence, where the 
rights and claims of others are concerned, and there 
is no principle of morals which can possibly make it 
a palliation for any other sin. Whoever retails the 
floating reproach, whoever puts a bad construction 
on the conduct of another, whoever deals bitterly 
and harshly with the character of others, may do it 
thoughtlessly, but still he is responsible, perhaps the 
more so ; for if he was conscientious, he would re- 



OFFENCES OF THE TONGUE. 



307 



fleet, and never, except in cases of necessity, say that 
which may injure another's feelings, reputation, or 
peace. It is true that unmerited slander dies away ; 
but no thanks to him who originates, nor to him 
who repeats it. Inspiration compares him to one who 
scatters firebrands in sport. The rain of heaven 
may extinguish the fire which the incendiary kin- 
dles, but he is as guilty as if the building were 
burned down. He who spreads or fans the flame 
is as guilty as he who kindles it ; he who assists to 
circulate the injurious word must bear, as well as 
its author, the penalty of the sin. 

There is one way in which unmeasured evil is 
brought into social life. It is by repeating to a 
friend the evil that has been said of him by another. 
Any one who has had much experience of life knows 
that such reports are never to be trusted. It is 
very seldom you hear what was said ; you never 
hear it as it was said. The person who is unprin- 
cipled enough to bring you the report which can oc- 
casion nothing but ill-feeling is unprincipled enough 
to be a liar ; — not deliberate, perhaps, but we must 
remember that whoever is careless of the truth is 
already a liar. I have known those who felt deeply 
wronged in consequence of reports of what a neigh- 
bour had said against them ; when, all the while, 
instead of being wronged themselves, they were 
wronging him who had said no such thing. Tell 
another the good that is said of him, if you will ; for 
this is one of those things which make for peace. 
But never, except in cases of necessity, tell your 



308 



OFFENCES OF THE TONGUE. 



friend the evil that has been said of him; for no 
good feeling would ever lead you to do it. If you 
produce any alienation or unkindness, you do it at 
your peril ; and however you may say you did 
not think of it, the day will come when you will 
be obliged to think of it with a heavy heart. 

We may see in the conversation of social life 
many other things which show the wisdom and 
necessity of the charge to be swift to hear, but slow 
to speak. How many there are who talk themselves 
into what they call their opinions ! When any sub- 
ject is presented, they speak without reflection, ac- 
cording to their impressions, or party associations, or 
perhaps guided by chance alone, and what they have 
once happened to say becomes their opinion. They 
maintain it not seriously and earnestly, as they 
would if they had really formed it ; but when they 
hear it questioned, they become angry and ferocious 
with those who differ from them, because they have 
thought upon the subject and deliberately made up 
their minds. When we consider how much our 
judgment of moral questions, our views of what is 
passing round us, our feelings toward others, — in- 
deed, how much all the interests of the mind and 
heart are involved in this thoughtless way of speak- 
ing, we see how important it becomes to set a guard 
at the door of our lips, suffering nothing to pass till 
we at least know what it is, — till we consider 
whether it will go forth for good or for evil, whether 
it will be a blessing or a curse to mankind. 

I have presented this subject because the view 



OFFENCES OF THE TONGUE. 



309 



which the Apostle gives of it is very impressive to 
my mind. He considers a man's words as expressive 
of his character, — not of a part of it, but of the 
whole, — and he does not admit the possibility of 
our being amiable, kind-hearted, or faithful, if our 
words are passionate, censorious, or unkind. This 
is not the common impression; but you can judge 
whether the world or inspiration, whether God or 
man, is most likely to err. What he says, too, of 
the effect of our way of speaking upon our own 
character and our future condition, is equally solemn ; 
it answers to what our Saviour had said before, — 
" By thy words thou shalt be justified, and by thy 
words thou shalt be condemned." 



SERMON XVII. 



DIVINE COMMUNICATIONS. 

FOR GOD SPEAK ETH ONCE, YEA, TWICE, YET MAN PERCEIVETH IT 

not. — Job xxxiii. 14. 

The sacred writers often complain that the Divine 
communications are disregarded when they are 
known to be Divine communications ; while fully 
acknowledging the authority with which they come 5 
men pay them no regard. But here it is said that 
God sometimes addresses men without their perceiv- 
ing it, — not certainly from any want of clearness 
in the communication, but because they are wanting 
in reverence. They do not take heed to these 
things. It is only in the silence of the soul that 
man can listen to the Divine communications, and 
in the whole history of some men there is no such 
time of silence ; there is no cool evening at the close 
of life's busy day. 

" God speaketh once, yea, twice, but man perceiv- 
eth it not." There are three ways in which we 
may believe the Deity to hold communication with 
his children. One is through the visible world 
around us ; another, by direct communion with the 



DIVINE COMMUNICATIONS. 



311 



human spirit ; and yet another, by commissioned in- 
terpreters of his mind and will. 

In the first place, let us consider the manifestation 
of God which is made to us in the works of nature, 
in which more information is conveyed to us than is 
commonly supposed. It is said that the visible 
world reminds us of its Maker. So it does. But it 
does more than recall to us what we knew before ; it 
conveys instruction which has not yet been searched 
out, and which gradually opens to an interested and 
attentive mind. 

When we inquire into the history of language, 
used in its broadest sense as the medium of commu- 
nication with other men, we very soon ascertain that 
there can be no direct intercourse of mind with 
mind. The only way that I can intimate to another 
what is passing in my mind is by pointing to some 
visible object, which shall represent to him the un- 
seen thought. The image suggests to him the idea 
which I wish to convey ; and in this way, doubtless, 
language was originally formed. Thus, when we 
would describe a man of justice united with firm- 
ness, we call him "upright," — referring to the out- 
ward appearance, which naturally affords a figurative 
expression of those traits of character. The word 
" holy " is formed in the same way ; the meaning of 
it is healthy r , — and the word health is naturally de- 
scriptive of that full, happy, and harmonious action 
of all within us, which religious holiness implies. 
In all cases of communication of thought and feel- 
ing between two human beings, there is a necessary 



312 



DIVINE COMMUNICATIONS. 



reference to something which is manifest to the out- 
ward sense ; and it would be found on investigation 
that language consists of images either naturally 
suggestive of certain thoughts and emotions, or ap- 
propriated to that purpose, which are brought up be- 
fore us by letters or sounds differing according to 
the dialect of the country. To those who have not 
the power of speech or hearing, these images are 
presented through the eye ; to those who have the 
additional infirmity of blindness, these images are 
suggested by the sense of feeling and varieties of 
touch. Language does not require voice nor sound ; 
when the Lord turned and looked on Peter, the 
Apostle could read clearly in that calm, sad, search- 
ing eye all that words could have told him of what 
was passing in the Saviour's breast. 

Since this is the language of nature, we might 
suppose that God would communicate with his chil- 
dren in this way ; and most certainly he does, to a 
far greater extent than is generally understood. We 
are cold and careless observers. We take notice of 
natural beauty and grandeur, indeed, but it is as one 
admires the beauty of a manuscript which he is not 
able to read, and does not care to read. If we would 
substitute religious feeling in place of mere taste and 
sentiment, that feeling 

" Which lifts to heaven an unpresumptuous eye, 
And, smiling, says, — 1 My Father made them all,' " 

we should enter at once into the rich and glorious 
fulness of the expression, — " The heavens declare 
the glory of God ; the firmament showeth forth the 



DIVINE COMMUNICATIONS. 



313 



work of his hands. Day unto day uttereth speech; 
and night unto night showeth knowledge. There 
is no speech, nor language, and their voice is not 
heard ; yet their sound is gone out into all the earth, 
and their words to the end of the world. " 

There must be very few, who, in looking on the 
natural world, have not been conscious of strong im- 
pressions made upon them at times. We call them 
accidental, because they are made at one time and 
not at another. But not so ; there is no such thing 
as chance ; every thing must have a cause, and mere 
lifeless matter has no power of itself to inspire or 
awaken. Whence, then, do these influences come ? 
Whence can they come, but from the great Source 
of inspiration, who is at once over all, through all, 
and in all that He has made. When the breath of 
spring comes over the heart, as we see it steal over 
a bed of flowers lifting their golden censers and 
bearing their incense upward, we feel as if an in- 
fluence came to us from the world of nature, when 
in truth it must have come from Him who made it. 
When we look on a red sunset cloud, floating like an 
island in the golden west, we are conscious of a 
feeling of religious repose ; we forget the cares of 
the world ; our hearts are softened into a tender so- 
lemnity which is not always there. So, too, in the 
deep night, when we look far into the dark, still 
heavens, and seem to come nearer to the mysteries of 
God and eternity through the unearthly silence of 
the hour, it is the Infinite Spirit who thus brings on 
that state of mind, in which preparation for heaven 
27 



314 



DIVINE COMMUNICATIONS. 



may be made. If we could only be sensible of 
these truths, — if, instead of merely looking at the 
grand and beautiful of nature, we could look through 
them, — they would be letters on the illuminated page 
of the universe ; they would have a sweet voice for 
us when the world does not hear them ; they would 
teach us much that we cannot otherwise learn of 
that great Being whom we most need, and should 
most desire, to know. 

We ought, then, to regard the natural world as a 
medium of communication, through which the Au- 
thor of nature communicates those thoughts and 
feelings which are most essential to our improve- 
ment, and best suited to refine and exalt the soul. 
Whenever our spirits are in harmony with nature, 
whenever they welcome the impression made by 
the stern mountain, the boundless ocean, the calm 
heavens, or any of those great or lovely objects that 
meet the eye, then we may know that they are in 
the right state for moral effort, for religious devotion, 
for any of the higher purposes of existence ; for as 
surely as guilt darkens over the face of nature, and 
makes it impossible to enjoy it, do innocence and 
holiness still more awaken the heart to its influences 
of peace and love. And why does guilt darken it 
over ? and why does holiness enable us to enjoy it 
best ? For all these things there is a reason. It is 
because the visible world has language which speaks 
to the guilty of God and eternity, which they dread, 
though they confess it not even to themselves ; 
while to the faithful it says, that He who cares for 



DIVINE COMMUNICATIONS. 



315 



the lily and the sparrow takes a deeper interest 
in them and theirs, and is constantly exerting an 
influence upon them to lead them to all that is 
good. 

A second method of Divine communication is by 
direct action upon the spirit of man. That there 
should be such a communication is easy to conceive, 
though the manner may be difficult to understand. 
It cannot be proved to the satisfaction of any one 
who doubts it, for the same reason that we cannot 
demonstrate any of our sentiments and emotions. 
Still, this unseen communication of the Spirit of God 
with our spirits is believed by every religious mind, 
with a faith as undoubting as that which any re- 
ligious truth inspires. It is true, the measure of such 
communications cannot be ascertained, neither can 
they, as a general rule, be distinguished from the 
operations of our own minds ; still, we can tell that 
such have been made, — as the widow of Sarepta 
knew that her meal and oil had been miraculously 
increased, though she could not distinguish that 
which was added from that which was there before. 
In fact, no religious person denies it ; but we often 
forget the reality, or at least the importance, of truths 
which no one thinks of denying, so that they are to 
us as though we believed them not. 

So far from denying this fact of communication 
between the Infinite Spirit and our own, we should 
rather extend our faith, and believe it to be com- 
mon and in the usual order of Providence, and not 
a mysterious and unusual thing. There can be no 



316 



DIVINE COMMUNICATIONS. 



doubt that God is constantly exerting an influence 
upon his children, as the sun affects our atmosphere 
even when hidden behind clouds. As the sun is 
gently and silently exerting a mighty and resistless 
influence wherever his rays fall, is the Father of our 
spirits acting unseen, and often unfelt, on the world 
of men, to save them from guilt and danger, and to 
lead them to all that is good. The conscience 
speaks not of itself; it is He who speaks through it 
to the soul. When he who is rushing down the 
steep of sin is suddenly alarmed into thoughtfulness 
by no external warning, by no agency that he can 
trace, but by some internal impulse, not likely to 
have sprung up of itself in his depraved and passion- 
worn breast, he naturally believes that it was God 
who breathed the warning to his guilty soul. And 
is he not right ? Nothing exists without a cause ; 
and why should not He, who regards even the fall of 
the sparrow in the world without, equally interest 
himself in ordaining whatever passes in the world 
within ? Should we not trace home our better sen- 
timents and purposes to that high Source, as the 
fountain whence they are most likely to flow? I 
have not a doubt, that, when we know ourselves 
better, and are able to search out with deeper insight 
the hidden movements of our souls, we shall be 
aware that every friendly warning, every impulse of 
generous feeling, every glow of repentance, every 
thing which sends our thoughts upward, every aspi- 
ration to that which is pure and high, every thing 
which brings us into nearer communication with our 



DIVINE COMMUNICATIONS. 



317 



heavenly Father, is owing to his direct and constant 
communication with us, — to the perpetual and im- 
partial influence which he is ever exerting to save 
us from this world's temptations, to make them in- 
struments of blessing, and to make us in every re- 
spect what he desires that his children should be. 
It is not limited nor exclusive ; it is not given to a 
few ; but, like the rain and sunshine, it comes to all, 
— to the just and the unjust, to the guilty as well 
as the good. 

To those who can have this faith, and see God in 
all things where his agency is present, the moral 
world becomes more deeply interesting, more sub- 
lime and beautiful, than the visible, and inspires the 
heart with even more eloquent praise. We can look 
through human nature up to the God of Nature, and 
in all the aspects of humanity, so far as his will and 
not our own choice ordains them, we can see the 
light of his goodness and feel the inspiration of his 
love. Do I rejoice in the coming of spring, when it 
returns in beauty and strength over valley and hill ? 
Much more does the spring of religious life in the 
thoughtless and hardened speak to me of God ; for it 
is he who unbinds Orion so that the winter departs, 
and releases the sweet influences of Pleiades in the 
soul, so that tears of repentance flow. Do I see his 
power in the crimson sunset, when the day sinks 
gently down into eternity, and the last light seems 
to flow from the inner depths of heaven ? Much 
more do I discern him in one of those death-scenes 
which it is sometimes our privilege to see, — where 
27* 



318 



DIVINE COMMUNICATIONS. 



the departing are sustained and calmed till fear and 
sorrow are lost in gratitude and love. In the warm, 
living sympathy of every kind and generous heart, 
in every work of kindness which man is blessed 
with the power to do, in every weary trial meekly 
and patiently borne, in every great effort of con- 
scientious energy, — still more, in those movements 
which spread from heart to heart till all burn alike 
with the enthusiasm which fires every great endeav- 
our, do I see, and, with heart bowed down, acknowl- 
edge and adore, a very present God, who is nearest 
to the human soul when it is most obedient to his 
suggestions and most profoundly conscious of his 
intimate presence and direct communication with 
every humble and faithful heart. 

The third way in which the Deity communicates 
with men is through the Scriptures, written by com- 
missioned interpreters of his mind and will. — par- 
ticularly those who have recorded the life and char- 
acter of Jesus Christ. In him the Divine was blend- 
ed with the human, — the Infinite with the finite, — 
so as to present at once the perfection of Divine and 
human character, giving us a living image of that 
union which we could not otherwise understand. 
For there are many things which cannot be con- 
veyed by any language of description. Try, for 
example, to paint in words the features and expres- 
sion of a stranger, to one who has never seen him. 
You can set no definite image before his mind, 
while the rudest portrait will convey at once what 
the happiest forms of language would be utterly un- 



DIVINE COMMUNICATIONS. 



319 



able to tell. Thus it is that the living image of 
perfection set before us in the Gospel at once con- 
veys to men what God is, and what man must en- 
deavour to be. 

But it may be asked, — " Why, if God is always 
speaking to men through his works and the influ- 
ences of his Spirit, was it necessary to address them 
yet again ? Is not the voice of nature clear enough, 
when it tells the glory of its God ! " The defect is 
not there. St. Paul says distinctly, that from the 
things that are made, — that is, from the wonders 
and glories of nature, — men might have known the 
power and divinity of God, might have known them 
if they had kept their minds open and their hearts 
undefiled by those passions which darken the clear 
vision of the soul. Doubtless it is also true, as our 
Saviour says, that the pure in heart can see God as 
he is not seen by the common eye. It was not the 
defect of God's previous communications, but the 
faithlessness of men to their destiny, their worldli- 
ness and corruption, which darkened their spiritual 
vision, and made it necessary to give new light from 
on high. That such light was really needed, who 
can doubt, if he considers what the world was when 
the Saviour came, and what men without him are 
now ? It is true there were good men in the world 
before he came ; but what then ? Does a light 
shining here and there from a solitary window re- 
move the darkness of the night ? Praise the attain- 
ments of the world before the Saviour came as much 
as you will, — and high attainments in arts, in phi- 



320 



DIVINE COMMUNICATIONS. 



losophy, and even in freedom, they certainly did 
reach, — the single fact, that there was no steady im- 
pulse of improvement, that, however men might be 
lifted up for a moment, they soon sank heavily down, 
proves their need of the support of a higher princi- 
ple. The fact, that there was no force acting upon 
men or within them to produce moral reforms, to 
save them from prevailing sins, to make them better 
and bring them nearer heaven, — this single fact of 
the utter absence of any steady impulse of improve- 
ment in all the ancient world shows incontestably 
that the world could never have accomplished the 
purpose for which God made it, if the dayspring of 
Christianity had not come. 

It was, as the Bible itself teaches, in concession 
to human sin, not on account of the want of other 
original means of light, that the Christian revelation 
was made. How well it supplies the hunger and 
thirst of the soul may be seen in the value which is 
attached to it by the spiritually disposed. Observe, 
it is of real wants, and not of tastes and fancies, 
that I speak. Those dreamy and imaginative minds, 
which have had little as yet to trouble and distress 
them, may find something more exciting elsewhere. 
To them it is as a lamp, unvalued in the thoughts of 
him that is at ease, though so welcome to the be- 
nighted stranger. To the sorrowful, to the heavy- 
laden, to those who are fighting a life-long battle 
with human woe, to those who are stripped of other 
blessings and whose earthly crown is fallen from 
their head, to those whose minds are made intensely 



DIVINE COMMUNICATIONS. 



321 



earnest by fear, anguish, and the presence of death, 
the Bible is a priceless treasure. They would not 
for worlds surrender it. for it speaks to them in tones 
of deep sympathy of that God who is the only de- 
pendence they have, and brings the glories of heaven 
in living brightness before their eyes. Thus the 
Bible, so often rejected by the vain and happy, is 
sure of a warm welcome wherever a suffering heart 
is found. When sorrow comes to the lordly man- 
sion or the straw-built shed, when death is raging on 
the bleeding deck or the trampled field, when the 
light of life is sinking low in the chamber of the 
dying or the prisoner's dreary cell, — wherever man 
is called to deal with the stern realities of life, — he 
clasps the Bible with both hands to his heart till its 
beating is still for ever. 

But it is not every one who understands how God 
communicates with us through the Scriptures. It is 
not by the letter alone. To this must be added the 
suggestions which they give, the trains of thought 
which they awaken, the active energy which they 
inspire in the thoughtful mind. Reflect on some of 
our Saviour's words, and you are struck with their 
depth of wisdom : but you see not all at once. As 
you ponder, their meaning seems to spread itself out 
before you ; it continually unfolds itself in new as- 
pects and relations, showing how truly it was likened 
to a small seed containing all the parts and propor- 
tions of the tree which is to lift itself to the skies 
and give shade to many generations. It is by ap- 
pealing to that which is within, by quickening the 



322 



DIVINE COMMUNICATIONS. 



spiritual powers into life and action, by drawing out 
all the resources of the soul, and making it earnestly 
attentive to the teaching of nature and God's Spirit, 
that the Bible fulfils its highest function in the up- 
right and trusting heart. The direct information 
which the words convey to us, vast as it is, seems 
of little worth compared to this quickening and life- 
giving power. This is their highest virtue and praise, 
— which our Saviour himself alluded to when he 
said, — " The words which I speak unto you, they 
are spirit and they are life." 



SERMON XVIII. 



THE APOSTLES. 

YE WHICH HAVE FOLLOWED ME, IN THE REGENERATION, WHEN THE 
SON OF MAN SHALL SIT IN THE THRONE OF HIS GLORY, YE ALSO 
SHALL SIT UPON TWELVE THRONES, JUDGING THE TWELVE TRIBES 

of israel. — Matthew xix. 28. 

By " the regeneration " is undoubtedly meant the 
time when the religion of Jesus shall have produced 
its effect in the world, making all things new, and 
in many respects reversing the moral judgments and 
feelings of men. When a single heart is regen- 
erated, it sees all things, and particularly character, 
the most important of all things, differently from 
what it ever saw them before. And so the world, 
when it becomes Christian, shall despise much that 
it now admires, and venerate some things which it 
now holds in light esteem. 

The word " judging " is used in a peculiar He- 
brew sense. It was applied by the Hebrews, not 
only to the administration of justice, but to all who 
held high civil station. Sometimes it was also used 
to describe that sort of preeminence which powerful 
character gives. Thus we find a time in their an- 



324 



THE APOSTLES. 



cient history when a woman "judged" Israel, — 
nothing more being meant by it, we may presume, 
than that her talent and energy inspired such confi- 
dence that all looked up to her for direction. Such I 
take to be the meaning here ; Avhen the world be- 
comes Christian, as we know from the prophets that 
it will, the names of the Apostles shall stand highest 
among the sons of light, and be spoken with deeper 
reverence than any other names inspire. 

It is quite too common among Christians of all 
sects, particularly in their comments on Scripture, 
to speak of the Apostles in a tone very different from 
this, — to speak of them in an apologizing way, as 
if they were originally narrow-minded men, rather 
inferior men, who were nothing without their in- 
spiration ; as if they were chosen on account of their 
unfitness, that the power of God might be exalted 
through the weakness of the instruments it em- 
ployed. But this is not the correct view of the sub- 
ject. They were undoubtedly chosen because they 
were eminently suited to their great office ; not by 
reason of graces and accomplishments, but because 
they possessed such minds and hearts as are always 
called to the front when there is any great work to 
be done. Jesus Christ knew what was in man, 
and it was because he saw that there was much in 
them, because he saw in them the solid rock of 
character, on which, so far as the world was con- 
cerned, his religion might be built, that he made 
them the associates of his pilgrimage, and, when 
he himself ascended, intrusted the Gospel to their 
hands. 



THE APOSTLES. 



325 



The Apostles were, it is true, uninstructed men ; 
not because knowledge is not a good thing, but be- 
cause the learning of that day was not of a sort that 
enlightened and enlarged the mind. Take its re- 
searches in physical science : its astronomy placed 
the earth in the centre of the solar system. What 
practical benefit in the way of navigation, what cor- 
rectness in measures of time, could there be, when 
there was such a foundation of error on which to 
build ? Or look into the opinions of learned men 
on the subject of morals : when one set of sages 
recommended stoical insensibility, and another epi- 
curean selfishness, as the basis of character, what 
good could it have done to a Christian apostle to 
have had those doctrines at his tongue's end ? To 
state the question more strongly, how was it possi- 
ble for a man to be a Christian apostle without first 
divesting his mind of such prejudices ? If the Apos- 
tles were ignorant of such learning, it was because 
ignorance was an advantage and a blessing. Such 
ignorance implied, not that they were narrow-minded, 
but £>nly that their minds were exempt from the de- 
lusions by which many others were bound. 

All that has been said of the prejudice and nar- 
row-mindedness of the Apostles has been founded 
on their supposed expectation that their Master 
would establish a temporal kingdom. Perhaps they 
had this impression; it was very natural that they 
should have it. They had been used to think of 
power over men, and it would have been strange if, 
never having seen or heard any thing of the kind, 
28 



326 



THE APOSTLES. 



they should have understood at once how the word 
" kingdom" could be applied to power within the 
hearts of men. It is very possible that they did not 
fully comprehend all that he meant to teach on this 
subject, and it is very doubtful if Christians fully 
comprehend it now. 

Is it certain, however, that they did expect a tem- 
poral kingdom, in the sense that is commonly sup- 
posed ? Their language implied an expectation that 
their Master would live and reign in the world. But 
do we not too much restrict the meaning of these 
words ? The thief who was dying upon the cross 
said, — " Remember me when thou comest into thy 
kingdom." Now, if he had said this while living, 
you would take it for granted that it referred to a 
temporal kingdom, such as that of ordinary kings. 
But as he said it when dying, — when just about to 
breathe his last, — what could he hope for from or- 
dinary kings ? Suppose that an ordinary kingdom 
should be established after he was dead, what good 
would it do to him ? You see at once that he could 
have no such meaning. He evidently though* of 
something spiritual ; he was journeying to the land 
of souls, and he thought and spoke of a sovereign 
who could save and bless the soul. And so I be- 
lieve that the Apostles, when they used such lan- 
guage, though they may not have comprehended all 
the times and circumstances of our Saviour's king- 
dom, did comprehend, nevertheless, what was of in- 
finitely greater importance, — its nature and spirit. 

Having touched on some of the chief reasons for 



THE APOSTLES. 



327 



misapprehending the Apostles, I will now set before 
you their claims upon our reverence. 

In the first place, I would ask you to consider the 
manner in which they followed Jesus Christ, and see 
if it was not evidence of great energy and decision 
of mind, as well as great generosity of feeling. The 
world has long admired the promptness of a cele- 
brated traveller. When called upon for the first 
time to undertake a distant and dangerous adventure, 
and asked when he would set out, he replied, — 
" To-morrow morning."' But the disciples of Jesus 
did not even wait for the rising of another sun. 
They had heard of him as the Messiah ; he utters 
those memorable words, " Follow me," upon which 
the historian records no doubt, no hesitation ; he sim- 
ply says, — " And they left all, rose up, and followed 
him." Now, when we consider that the homes of 
these men, however humble, were homes to them, 
that their labor in the fishing-boats was their only re- 
source for subsistence, that their inexperience of the 
world must have made it a formidable thing to ex- 
pose themselves to its frowns and terrors, and that 
there was nothing in our Saviour's appearance or cir- 
cumstances from which they could possibly have 
hoped earthly gain, — if we keep these things before 
us, we shall see that no ordinary men could have done 
as they did. If Abraham has been called the "father 
of the faithful " because he went forth into the wil- 
derness at the call of God, not knowing whither he 
went, a greater honor belongs to them. I can ex- 
plain their conduct in no other way than by ascrib- 



328 



THE APOSTLES. 



ing it to a sense of duty. It was not till long after 
that one of them said to Jesus, — "Lo ! we have left 
all and followed thee. What, therefore, shall we 
have ? " Had they been led out by considerations of 
this kind, they would have asked the question be- 
fore ; but it must be remembered that they left all 
and followed him without asking this or any other 
question. They were evidently determined by mor- 
al principle, or, at any rate, by faith, — faith in the 
unseen and future, leading them to forget and for- 
sake the visible and present, which has always been 
accounted one of the most infallible marks of a large 
and generous mind. 

The second proof of greatness and far-discernment 
which the Apostles gave was in their comprehension 
of the spirit of their Master, — the very thing which 
some men will not allow that they understood. In 
its full extent and in all its excellences they possibly 
did not understand it ; — possibly men never will 
embrace its full glory in their dim conceptions, till 
they reach a more advanced state of existence. But 
that they comprehended it well, and better than other 
men, it seems to me impossible to deny. The image 
of Jesus, as presented to us in the Scriptures, — it is 
lifelike, animated, more Divine than human, so that 
even infidels acknowledge its power and loveliness, 
and say that it touches their hearts. Now, by whose 
hands was it drawn ? By the hands of these very 
men. But is it possible that, without entering into 
the spirit of the original, they could thus have caught 
its expression, since its like was nowhere to be found 
on earth ? 



THE APOSTLES. 



329 



But the manner in which they have presented the 
character of Jesus Christ is not the only, nor the 
best, proof that they understood it. If I wish for 
evidence to show whether a man understands our 
Saviour's life or not, I look at his otvn. I do not 
pay much regard to his words, because there is a 
more expressive language, — I look at his life, and if 
I find it unlike that model which he professes to ad- 
mire, I do not believe he understands the principles 
and elements, I am sure he does not understand the 
value, of that great image of goodness and of God. 
I look to the Apostles, and I find them in full sym- 
pathy with their Master ; I find them walking in 
the same path which he trod with such a glorious 
march ; I find them resembling him in their self- 
denial, their hopeful exertion, their labor of love for 
man. They have caught his spirit of benevolence ; 
they have kindled from the same fire their own 
bright flames of devotion ; they sound the trumpet 
of glad tidings with a power which wakes the dead 
in sin. Seeing all this, I ask, Where are those who 
ever understood the Saviour so well as the men who 
followed directly in his steps, and were changed 
into the same image by the daily effort and sacrifice 
of their lives ? 

This leads me, in the third place, to speak of the 
personal character of the Apostles. And here let 
me say, that it is not every one who is able to esti- 
mate character. There are those, who, when a great 
character stands out before them, are much more 
struck with its peculiarities and blemishes than with 
28 * 



330 



THE APOSTLES. 



the strength and majesty of the whole. Our Pilgrim 
Fathers, for example, were men of the very first 
order ; but if any of them were to come back to life 
and dwell among us, small minds would be struck 
with the small things about them. The young 
would laugh at their unfashionable dress ; men of 
the world would ridicule their antique and peculiar 
manners ; cultivated persons would despise their big- 
otry and superstition ; it would be only one in a 
hundred, — only those few who had sympathy with 
noble thoughts, energies, and feelings, — who would 
understand their lofty cast of sentiment, their sublime 
and generous daring, and that inflexible regard for 
conscience which amply entitle them to the name of 
great and good. And so in the Apostles there were 
some things, which, because little things are great to 
little men, prevent many from giving them the rev- 
erence which is their due. Thus in Peter and John, 
the two foremost of their number, there were small 
veins of infirmity running through their characters, 
like wood-work in a fire-proof building ; after these 
were burnt out by the fiery trials through which 
they passed, they became firm and strong as the liv- 
ing rock. But these infirmities, though no essential 
parts of the character of either, so attract the atten- 
tion of shallow observers, as to make them insensible 
to the grand and solemn display of energy, courage, 
and intense devotion, which was seen in all their 
history, shining brighter and brighter to the last. 

The day for the right estimate of these, or any 
other exalted characters, is not yet fully come. It 



THE APOSTLES. 



331 



is true, our Saviour revealed that usefulness is the 
measure of greatness, and when his religion prevails, 
the world's reverence will be paid to the useful, be- 
nevolent, and conscientious alone, and denied to 
many to whom it is rendered now. The time for 
exclusive admiration of military glory — that delu- 
sion which possessed the world for ages — is passing 
by. A like enthusiasm is now inspired by the orator, 
poet, or statesman, by those who stand foremost in 
intellectual power. Hereafter it will be understood 
that the understanding can never be truly enlight- 
ened for the practical and most important ends of 
existence, without cultivating at the same time the 
moral, social, and religious affections, each in its place 
and order, keeping each in appropriate and efficient 
action, and blending all into a beautiful and consist- 
ent whole. And when this day arrives, when the 
kingdom of Christianity has come, when character is 
seen to be the one thing needful to the greatness, 
elevation, and happiness of man, then shall the first 
heralds of Christianity sit on thrones and judge the 
world. 

Again, therefore, would I object to that tone in 
sacred criticism common to all sects, which gives 
the impression, that, because the Apostles were unin- 
structed, they were unenlightened and narrow-mind- 
ed. Scholars, wholly taken up with their want of 
human learning, though an advantage in the service 
to which they were called, are almost blind to their 
frequent manifestation of real and native greatness 
of soul. They forget that a man may be entirely 



332 



THE APOSTLES. 



ignorant of letters, and yet have his mind enlarged 
and liberalized by familiarity with noble thoughts 
and actions. No : the men whom Jesus loved, who 
lived and acted with him while he was upon earth, 
and to whom he intrusted that faith which was the 
world's last hope, were not ordinary men. They 
had their infirmities, no doubt, and none so ready to 
acknowledge them as they : but till we can find 
those who in the face of danger are as ready to arise 
and follow their Master, till we can find those who 
enter with sympathy as deep as theirs into his Divine 
spirit, till we can find those who have done a thou- 
sandth part of what they did in the cause of human- 
ity, let us reverence their names, and so prove that 
we are capable of appreciating what is truly great. 



SERMON XIX.* 



THE ETHICS OF WAR. 

GLORY TO GOD IN THE HIGHEST, AND ON EARTH PEACE, GOOD-WILL 

towards men. — Luke ii. 14. 

It is not long since we were deeply excited with 
the fate of a vessel which left her harbour at mid- 
night, freighted with those who were hastening to 
their friends, to spend with them the annual festival 
of gratitude and joy. She was soon struck and dis- 
abled by the storm ; — and while we were under our 
sheltering roofs, with luxurious tables spread . before 
us, they passed their Day of Thanksgiving without 
food or fire, — fasting and in prayer ; for they knew 
that no human help could reach them, and they were 
only waiting to die. Behold at eventide trouble, and 
before the morning she was no more. The next 
day's dawning showed a wreck, — broken and wel- 
tering on shore, with no sign of life near it save 



* His last Christmas discourse, 1846, soon after the wreck of the 
steamer Atlantic in the Sound. The substance of it was published as 
a review in the Christian Examiner for March, 1847. As it is there 
mixed up with personal allusions, which take from the gravity of the 
argument, we have thought best to give it in its original form. 



334 



THE ETHICS OF WAR. 



the sound of a bell which rose above the shat- 
tered ruin, and which the winds and waves were 
sadly tolling, as if in penitence for what they had 
done. Our hearts were heavy and our eyes w^ere 
dim when we thought of the friends of those way- 
farers listening for their returning steps, and when 
they did return, cold, pale, and borne by the hands 
of others, compelled to welcome, not the living, but 
the dead. 

Compare with this the feeling with which we 
hear of battles fought and many brave men fallen, — 
fallen, not like the sufferers of the Atlantic, by the 
act of God, which is always mercy, but their lives 
gushing out in blood, shed by the unmerciful pas- 
sions of men. The tidings of the former awakened 
deep sadness, even in hearts which were not wound- 
ed by the blow ; the news of the latter are re- 
ceived with transport, with the sound of bells and 
the roar of cannon, — not minute guns and funeral 
knells, but with every demonstration of rapturous 
joy, our cities blazing with illuminations, the wine- 
cup sparkling on festive tables, thanks offered up in 
churches ; — and all for what ? Because, with great 
loss of life on our own side, we have sent a larger 
measure of agony to the nation with which Ave are 
at war. 

When I consider what anniversary has brought us 
here this night, and when I see these graceful dec- 
orations, — fit emblem of that religion which keeps 
its freshness and verdure when all is desolate around, 
— I cannot but remember that its purpose was to es- 



THE ETHICS OF WAR. 



335 



tablish " peace on earth/' And yet how little has 
been accomplished ! How much of the earth is yet 
trodden down by armies, shaken with artillery, and 
drenched with human blood ! 

Whence is it that men are so blind to their own 
welfare, and so insensible to the counsels and warn- 
ings of the great Teacher ? It is owing to the influ- 
ences which the practice of war has exerted on the 
common-sense and moral judgments of mankind. 

Let us now analyze these influences. Let us see 
what they are, and how it is that they have the 
effect to mislead and harden the heart. I shall take 
no extreme ground on the subject, though I confess 
I do not see how followers of the Prince of Peace 
can have much to do with arms. I shall not deal in 
political allusions. What I say has reference to all 
wars, — even to just ones, if any such w r ars can be. 
I would simply trace out and set before you those 
traditional influences which the practice of war has 
made so general and so mighty in what is called, 
one w^ould think by way of derision, the Christian 
world. 

The first evidence of the power of these influences 
which war has been exerting is seen in the man- 
ner in which it reverses all human relations. The 
ancient prophet asked, — - Have w 7 e not all one Fa- 
ther? hath not one God created us?" It was a 
chief object of all God's revelations to teach us that 
we are all brethren, — bound together by ties of ob- 
ligation which can never be undone. But the hu- 
man heart is ingenious in its evasions of duty, and 



336 



THE ETHICS OF WAR. 



when the founder of the Hebrew law had pro- 
claimed the glorious precept, " Thou shalt love thy 
neighbour," the bloody hand of war wrote over 
against it, " Thou shalt hate thine enemy," on the 
same sacred page. The two charges went forth like 
twins, though one was from above, the other from 
below, — ■ a sunbeam from heaven side by side with 
a red gleam from hell ; and when the Saviour came, 
the Jews did not know, till he told them, that the 
commands had not both proceeded from the same 
Source of light. The same thing has been done 
over again. Oar Saviour, in order to prevent it, 
gave the earnest and repeated charge, "Love your 
enemies," and over against this the bloody hand of 
war has written, — not indeed in the Bible, but in the 
hearts of those who read it, — u Kill your enemies " ; 
and they think they can practise upon both, — they 
do not see any inconsistency between the two. 
They think they can love them and kill them at 
the same time ; or, at any rate, they will kill them 
whenever they are so disposed, and all the while 
they see no reason why they should not use the 
prayer, — " Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive 
those who trespass against us." Well it is for them 
that God does not take them at their word. For 
my part, I shall not suffer war to expound the Scrip- 
tures for me. I deny that any human power can re- 
verse the relations which God ordains. If he says 
that every man is my brother, no human government 
shall make him otherwise to me. 

But to illustrate the injurious effect of the influ- 



THE ETHICS OF WAR. 337 

ences in question, it may be well to look more closely 
into the subject, and to consider what are called the 
rights of war. Can there be one moral law for men 
of peace, and another for those who take up arms ? 
Is there one Gospel for the tent, and another for the 
tabernacle ? Do men by enlisting in an army cease 
to be under the authority of God? So it should 
seem, according to the martial theory of morals ; and 
this, too, though it is admitted, at the same time, that 
the relations of nations to each other are just like 
those of individuals. One people are bound to 
another people just as two men are bound to each 
other. But if I declare war on my neighbour, will 
that suspend all other obligations, and give me a 
right to take his life ? It seems ridiculous to ask 
such a question. Yet it is nothing on earth but a 
simple declaration of war, of one nation against 
another, which, in the analogous relation of states, 
is supposed to give the men of each nation a right 
to shed each other's blood : and they do it with per- 
fect unconcern. In peace, it is thought a serious 
thing to take life ; but in war, every one feels per- 
fectly free to do it, and never troubles himself to 
know how he shall answer for it, never asks whether 
it is right or wrong. Whereas, the Almighty looks 
in every thing only at the right and the wrong. 
No rich and splendid associations can mislead his 
judgment or dim his all-seeing eye. To him the 
meeting of armies in battle's magnificently stern 
array is insignificant as the scuffle round a peddler's 
wheel ; the advantage taken by the strong nation 
29 



33S 



THE ETHICS OF WAR. 



in the battle-field is no more respectable than the 
cheating of the knave with his pack of cards, save 
that he sets the seal of his deepest damnation on 
those who are most insensible to the wrongs and 
sorrows of their fellow-men. 

It is edifying to see how these " rights of war," 
as they are called, are made to vary with circum- 
stances. A right is something fixed and unchange- 
able ; but these martial rights are extended so as to 
cover any thing and every thing which it pleases a 
powerful nation to do. Does any man in private 
life believe that his having declared war on a neigh- 
bour and slain his children makes him heir at law 
to that neighbour's estate ? But such is precisely 
the ground taken by Christian nations. England, 
having opened the market in China for her opium, 
or, as they phrase it, having cleared the way for 
Christianity to enter that empire, is now engaged in 
digging a bloody grave for the poor New-Zealand- 
ers, and pouring cannon-balls into living masses of 
the brave and manly Sikhs, who cannot comprehend 
how they have lost all right to their own country. 
Then, too, we see his most Christian Majesty of 
France asserting the same Divine right to the little 
island of Tahiti, which he happens to want for a 
naval station ; and making the same demand in 
Northern Africa, expounding to the Arabs that they 
lost all right to their native country when he de- 
clared them enemies of France. We see Russia 
and Austria, too, in defiance of the most positive 
engagements, swallowing up the republic of Cracow, 



THE ETHICS OF AVAR. 



339 



the last remnant of Poland, whose fate had brought 
lasting infamy upon them before. The statesmen 
of these great nations, lest peradventure they should 
be mistaken for ungodly picaroons, are careful to 
adorn every public document with the Holy Name, 
calling Him to bear witness to their conscientious- 
ness, and showing how every step conforms to the 
right ; — not to the right as the moral sense expounds 
it, but to the right as it is interpreted by the brazen 
voice of war. And who can testify against them ? 
Who can say, "Why do ye so?" There is not a 
land on the face of the earth which does not main- 
tain, in the face of common sense, common human- 
ity, and common honesty, that one nation acquires 
a right to the possessions of another nation by the 
cheap and easy process of declaring war. 

This matter of right would be soon disposed of 
if one nation had to judge in the case of another ; 
it is only when its own imaginary interest is con- 
cerned that it shuts the dark-lantern of its con- 
science, and suffers no light to shine. Where any 
nation exercises this right, which they all claim 
when they think proper, the rest set up a hue and 
cry, and see that the right is wrong. Thus Eng- 
land weeps aloud for American slavery, and flames 
up at the thought of French aggressions, without 
one misgiving as to any thing wrong in her own. 
France, too, bears angry witness against what the 
despotic sovereigns have just done in Poland, when, 
in fact, they have but paid her the respect of follow- 
ing her own example. Reflect also on one thing. 



340 



THE ETHICS OF WAR. 



To every right there is a corresponding duty. 
Wherever one nation has a right to plunder another 
people, it must be the duty of that people to submit 
to it as an act of God. Instead of sending armies, 
at least before sending armies, how much better it 
would be to send missionaries to the victim people, 
to endeavour to bring them to a sense of duty ! Let 
them take the Scriptures with them ; let them show 
the benighted race that might makes right. Let 
them see how soon such doctrine would reach the 
conscience and subdue the resisting heart. Perhaps 
in the effort to establish such a mission, if they 
could not persuade the foreign people, they might 
get some information for themselves. It would not 
be long before they would grievously suspect that 
the Christian civilization, in which they pride them- 
selves, is but a sanctified barbarism after all, which 
kills, burns, and destroys on week-days, and on the 
Sabbath talks of forbearance, righteousness, and 
judgment to come, without being aware of any in- 
consistency between the words and the deeds. 

But enough of the rights of war ; it is sufficiently 
evident that they are only so many wrongs, — griev- 
ous, impudent, intolerable wrongs. Let us look 
next at some of the duties of war, which are of the 
same parentage and bear the marks of the same ill- 
favored race. Can any being in his senses per- 
suade himself that it is ever his duty to mangle, 
plunder, and destroy his brother-man ? What duty 
can require it ? There is no obligation in Chris- 
tianity, nor in natural religion, which enjoins this 



THE ETHICS OF WAR. 341 

work upon him. What, then, is it which binds him 
to do what all religion so expressly forbids ? The 
only answer is, — his duty to his country. Well, 
no doubt it is a duty to serve one's country. But is 
this the way to do it ? Is there no better way of 
doing it ? Is it a real service to his own country to 
float another with blood? The real interest of all 
nations are precisely the same ; no nation ever pros- 
pers by injury to another. No one would ever have 
dreamed that such a thing is possible, were it not for 
the hollow delusion of glory, falling, like a drop- 
curtain, to cover the ghastly scenes of violence, dis- 
tress, licentiousness, and all corruption, which even 
a successful war sends home. Whoever really de- 
sires to serve his country will find that the service 
it needs most is that of educating the minds which 
lie fallow, of cherishing the moral sentiment which 
is ready to perish, of laying again the foundations of 
religious principle, which is the only true strength 
and safeguard of any country. Or if his view does 
not rise quite so high, let him serve it by aiding its 
industry, by taking part in its public works, by help- 
ing to plan and execute those physical improvements 
which minister to the comfort, the intelligence, and 
general welfare of mankind. In the army of every 
nation there is a vast amount of science, talent, and 
energy, which, if the world could be at peace for 
half a century, would all be wanted, and might all 
be nobly and happily engaged in services like this. 
In confirmation of this, let me add what was once 
said to me by a manufacturer of gunpowder. I told 
29* 



342 



THE ETHICS OF WAR. 



him, that, if Christianity should succeed in bring- 
ing peace on earth, it would spoil his business. 
" Not at all/' he replied ; " it would be the best thing 
that could happen ; when industry prospers and pub- 
lic improvements are made, the demand for powder 
is far better than in times of war." 

When men talk thus of their duty to their coun- 
try, does it never occur to them that they have du- 
ties to the men of other countries ? They say it is 
only their enemies whom they kill. Their enemies ? 
why, those are the very persons whom Jesus says 
they must love. When they call them 61 enemies," 
they bring the case under the strictest interpretation 
of the Christian law. And can they think that 
they are loving them when they destroy their lives, 
plunder their property, violate their daughters, and 
trample down their homes with the blood-shod 
march of war ? Is this Christian affection ? Is this 
Christian duty ? One thing is so clear that no one 
can deny it. It is this. If it is a duty to do these 
things, it is a sin to refuse to do them. But if any 
man refuses to shoot others in such warfare, do we 
call him a sinner ? do we exhort him to repent and 
flee from the wrath to come? I have seen many 
death-beds, but I never heard a dying man lamenting 
that he had killed so few. If any have really per- 
suaded themselves of the existence of this duty, I 
think I may safely promise, that, if they should 
be remiss in the discharge of it, no great remorse 
for that neglect will embitter their closing hours. 

Another of these perversions of the true idea of 



THE ETHICS OF WAR. 



343 



duty is seen in the language of statesmen in Chris- 
tian nations on the subject of war. They often 
labor to show that a war is unjust and dishonorable ; 
they charge the ministry who have plunged their 
country into it with falsehood to their trust ; but as 
soon as they take their places in the public councils, 
where their influence and action can be felt, you 
hear them say, — what ? Why, surely, — " Bring 
this war to a close. Let not another sun go down 
upon it." No such thing. You are amazed to hear 
them say it must be maintained ! Maintained ? and 
for what earthly reason ? Why, for this reason only, 
because it is begun. Because it is begun we must 
carry it through. It was wicked to begin it, but 
now public virtue requires that we should carry it 
through. So, then, if a king has told a lie, the 
people must stand to it, and lie it through. If our 
children have begun a shameful quarrel, we must 
not let them be separated ; it is their duty to fight 
it out. On the contrary, I confess I should have 
thought, that, if one nation had injured another, it 
could not stop too soon. If this doctrine of its be- 
ing dishonorable to commence a work of sin, and 
then, because it is commenced, dishonorable to put a 
stop to it, is a Christian doctrine, it must be that I 
have not read my Bible aright. 

But more. According to these morals of war, a 
Christian statesman, though as a man he deplores 
and denounces the war in which his country is 
engaged, may vote for it in council, or, what is the 
same thing, for supplies to carry it on. Though 



344 



THE ETHICS OF WAR, 



as a man he declares it to be a sorrow and shame 
to his country, — though he speaks in reprobation of 
the conduct of the ministry who have brought it on. 
— still he furnishes the means to sustain it. This 
is often done in Christian nations ; and when the 
statesman stands thus, lifting up one hand in pious 
horror, and lifting up the other to vote for supplies, 
people are not struck with any inconsistency be- 
tween the word and the deed. Now this may be all 
right and proper; but no light on the subject of 
morals which I have ever attained can make it seem 
right and proper to me. Certainly, no one should 
offer physical resistance or factious opposition to his 
government ; but without doing any thing of the 
kind, he may and ought to use all his influence to 
a right discernment of the subject. He should treat 
the administration with respect, certainly, but not 
submit his conscience to theirs. And as for being 
instrumental in any capacity, in any way, to sustain 
measures which he considers wrong, — it may be al- 
lowed in the Hindoo Shaster, or the Scandinavian 
Edda, but it is not so written in the Christian Scrip- 
tures, if I have read them aright. 

Another of the fantastic duties enjoined on men 
by the ethics of the sword is, that under all circum- 
stances they are to rejoice in the success of their 
country's arms. Can it be so ; Is patriotism ever 
at war with the moral sense ? Must conscience be 
sacrificed to one's country? If our children go into 
a neighbour's premises, rifle his property, burn his 
dwelling, and take possession of his estate, must we 



THE ETHICS OF WAR. 



345 



congratulate ourselves on such doings because the 
crime is committed in the family? Is it unnatural 
not to rejoice ? And yet, when things substantially 
the same are done by armies, if any one cannot re- 
joice in what is called the success of his country's 
arms, he loses his influence ; he ceases to be a pa- 
triot ; he is suspected and denounced as a traitor. 
This point of morals it is not so easy to understand. 
Must not the true heart take sides with the right ? 
Do not generous sympathies always lean to the in- 
jured party ? Most certainly no one can rejoice in 
any misfortune happening to the armies of his coun- 
try. But if they are doing wrong, the greatest 
blessing that can befall them is to return ; if the ser- 
vice in which they are engaged is indefensible, the 
sooner they abandon it the better. Those who 
think the service right may rejoice when it prospers ; 
but why it should be exacted of those who think it 
wrong, it is not easy to tell. 

Besides, when it is said that men must rejoice in 
the victories of their country, it may be well to con- 
sider what a victory is. The gain is, that our troops 
have driven back the enemy from a barren and 
worthless plain, sunk some of their ships with the 
seamen in them, or ta,ken some town which is of no 
use to any but the owners. In these advantages 
there is no great gain to any of us. Neither the na- 
tion, nor any one in the nation, is better or happier 
after them than he was before. There is no acces- 
sion of comfort, improvement, or prosperity to re- 
joice in. The cause of rejoicing is not to be esti- 



346 



THE ETHICS OE WAR. 



mated in any such way : you must find how much 
there is to delight in by counting the numbers of 
the dead. But is it a pleasant thing that so many of 
our brave countrymen have fallen ? O. no ! For 
them we must sing dirges and funeral anthems, in 
all the solemnity of woe. Well. then, while we are 
mourning thus for our own dead, must we rejoice in 
the destruction of our adversaries ? If it is a duty, 
how is it to be done ? That they were cut off from 
the living, that widows and orphans are weeping for 
them in their desolate homes, that they were thus 
hurried into an immortal state with but little or no 
preparation. — all this does not fill my heart with 
joy. I cannot rejoice in death and sorrow. I can- 
not exult in violence and blood. Such rejoicing I 
must leave to bells and cannon, which care not what 
language they are made to speak. To me all vic- 
tories must be mournful things : I cannot look back 
with triumph upon a single one in all human his- 
tory, save the great victory which the Saviour 
gained over death and the grave : in which, be it 
remembered, he shed no blood but his own. 

A still more remarkable perversion of the true 
idea of duty is seen in the military profession, which 
certainly embraces an immense amount of ability 
and science. The maxim is. and has been for ages, 
that it is the duty of a soldier to obey his orders, 
whatever they may be. In other words, it may be 
his duty to engage in services which he condemns 
and abhors in his heart. In plain English, his duty 
requires of him what he cannot conscientiously do. 



THE ETHICS OF WAR, 



347 



and he is bound in honor to take part in what he 
thinks a dishonorable transaction : so that conscience 
stands in direct opposition to duty, and baseness be- 
comes a point of honor. One w r ould say that his 
cotirse in such circumstances is clear enough ; it is 
to quit the service. Others see the matter different- 
ly ; they have no scruples ; he must leave such 
work to them. He has no right to make a machine 
of himself ; he has a conscience of his own ; as a 
man of spirit and independence, he ought to resent 
the thought of being made a pliant tool in the hands 
of others. But unfortunately he is not encouraged 
by public opinion thus to consult his self-respect and 
follow his own sense of right ; should he do so, he 
will be called a poltroon ; should he throw up his 
commission, he will be suspected and dishonored as 
a coward. And it requires more nerve, more deter- 
mination of purpose, more of every thing which 
makes a hero, to face this undeserved reproach, than 
to march up to the heaviest battery that ever blazed 
in the front of war. 

I was never so much impressed with the sad effect 
of substituting this ethical moonshine in the place 
of duty, as in reading the account of the last hours 
of a gallant officer of our army, — a man amiable in 
character and greatly beloved by all. The friend 
who was with him says that he talked with deep 
interest, not of that eternity into which he was 
sinking fast, — not of the Saviour who died for him, 
and the judgment where he was soon to stand, — but 
of the effect of his artillery, the numbers which it 



348 



THE ETHICS OF WAR. 



swept down, and of what he would do should he 
ever join the battle again. In that awful hour when 
the death-shadow was darkening round him 3 he was 
sustained by the thought that he had done his duty 
as a soldier, though in doing so he had trampled 
down every other duty. Such was his preparation 
to meet his God. On such a departure one can 
think only with sorrowful concern. But that con- 
cern deepens into disgust when we think of a man 
of another stamp ; — Nelson, for example, that mon- 
arch of the bleeding deck, living for years in shame- 
less adultery, making himself an assassin for the 
sake of his vile paramour, and dying at last without 
one feeling of penitence or kindness for the wife 
and orphans whom he had deserted, but with a like 
expression on his lips, — " Thank God ! I have done 
my duty/' Ay ! with a weight of guilt heavy 
enough to sink all the fleets of England, he dies 
in the persuasion that his duties are done. May 
God have mercy on the souls of those who die in 
such delusion ! There shall be a fearful waking 
when the light of eternity flashes in upon the slum- 
bering heart. 

The name I have just mentioned reminds me of 
another of the injurious influences of war. It cre- 
ates a false standard of character , fixing admiration 
on unworthy objects, and transferring to plunderers 
and destroyers that enthusiasm which ought to be 
reserved for benefactors of mankind. Among our 
Saviours wondrous disclosures was that memorable 
truth, so little dreamed of in his time, so little com- 



THE ETHICS OF WAR. 



349 



prehended now, that usefulness is the measure of 
greatness ; that whoever renders the greatest amount 
of beneficent service to others is the greatest man, 
whether so regarded by the world or not. How 
directly opposed to this the public sentiment gen- 
erated by war ! Neither moral nor intellectual em- 
inence, no high gift or accomplishment, is required 
in those whom the multitude delight to honor. 
They worship physical courage, — often mere tough- 
ness and insensibility of nerve, — which is the mean- 
est of all forms of courage. 

Really, in this respect the world has been going 
backward ; the shadow on the dial of history indi- 
cates a descending sun. Why, even the chivalry of 
the dark ages, wild and romantic as it was, is now 
invested with a sort of Gothic grandeur, by reason 
of the high and generous feelings which it inspired. 
It demanded courage, indeed, but it demanded it as 
a thing of course, — as a trait which it was disgrace- 
ful not to have, but not an honor to have. At the 
same time, it set high above it the duties of human- 
ity, — requiring noble and kind affections, gentle and 
graceful courtesy, an open and manly bearing to all, 
and, more than this, a desire to raise the fallen, to 
protect the helpless, and to redress all human wrongs. 
In our days, a man may pass for a hero, on the 
strength of talent and energy only, without a single 
virtue to redeem a thousand crimes. Christianity 
does not see these things as men do, and Christianity 
represents to us God's judgment on what is passing 
in the world below. In the eye of our religion, that 
30 



350 



THE ETHICS OF WAR. 



poor Mexican woman of Monterey, who went forth 
when the battle was raging to give water and food 
to the fallen of both armies and bind up their bleed- 
ing wounds, and was there unmercifully shot down 
as giving aid and comfort to the enemy, was a being 
more exalted than any chief of the brave army who 
covered themselves with glory there. Her glory is 
also incorruptible, undefiled with blood, and shall 
never fade away. 

If we want an instance of this perversion of right 
feeling on the subject of character, we find it in the 
enthusiasm which the memory of Napoleon awakens. 
When he came forward, his country was resisting 
her invaders : and when he fought the battles of the 
free, and rolled back the tide of war upon those in- 
vaders, all hearts cheered him onward, admiring his 
bold energy, and wishing success to his arms. But 
afterwards, when it became clear that he had not 
the heart to be a patriot, that he was acting the part 
of a poor and selfish usurper, they could hardly be- 
lieve that he was no longer the same, and he was 
still admired and followed by all but the La Fayettes 
of France. His talent and force of character were 
wonderful indeed : the grasp of mind which he 
showed in discussing the laws of his empire give a 
most exalted impression of his ability : but his heart, 
if he had one, was as barren of all generous affec- 
tions as December is barren of flowers. His mother 
said of him, that it was as cold and hard as one of 
his own cannon-balls. In his younger days of com- 
parative obscurity, he married a fine-spirited and 



THE ETHICS OF WAR. 



351 



queenly woman, who consented to share his for- 
tunes, which were then beneath her own. After- 
wards, with the cold selfishness of an evil spirit, in 
order to ally himself with a royal house, he put her 
away and left her to die in solitude of a broken 
heart. So unsympathizing was his nature, that he 
required his brothers to do the same ; but they hap- 
pened to have human affections, and chose rather to 
incur his deep displeasure by resisting his will. 
Such was the man for whom the world went mad 
with enthusiasm ; even now, there is no bound to 
the rapture of some of his admirers. The glory of 
Washington seems to them cold and formal beside 
this idol of stone. And yet the fame of Washington 
shall increase, while that of Napoleon shall decrease ; 
it shall die out like the light of a bonfire, sinking in 
darkness and ashes, while that of our great country- 
man shall be, to use the beautiful image of inspira- 
tion, as the rising light " that shineth more and more 
unto the perfect day." 

While the practice of war has thus injuriously 
affected the moral feeling of individuals, it has done 
still more to deprave and injure nations, by destroy- 
ing their good understanding with each other, by 
making them enemies, though the God of nature 
had made them friends. As every jurist will tell 
you, public law assumes as a maxim that nations are 
enemies to each other. This is doubtless the fact, 
but it seems strange that it should be the foundation 
of public law. Our own United States, bound to- 
gether under a federal government, are taken out 



352 



THE ETHICS OF WAR. 



of this vicious position ; but if ever madness and 
folly should unloose the bands which hold them to- 
gether, they would at once relapse into the old sys- 
tem. They would become bitter enemies, and, so 
far from any portion of them gaining in prosperity 
by the separation, there would follow a succession of 
border wars, as cruel and deadly as the world ever 
saw. Out of this state of things in Europe has 
grown what is called " the balance of power." We 
ask for the balance of common sense and common 
humanity ; we hear of nothing but the balance of 
power, — an imaginary restraint upon ambitious and 
grasping nations, which has been talked about, and 
written about, but never really existed. Thus Eng- 
land in the last hundred years, and most of all in 
the wars which followed the French Revolution, 
has spent lives without number, and run into a debt 
of a thousand millions, under the influence of this 
unreal fiction, — maintaining the balance of power, 
as she calls it : and now her suffering multitudes, 
her grinding taxation, and the depths of poverty and 
distress which her outside magnificence but thinly 
covers, show what she has gained by her gigantic 
and exhausting labors. There is hardly a British 
statesman now, except some lingering remnant of 
the past, who does not lament this fatal policy of 
Pitt, — " the pilot that weathered the storm/' While 
they admire his stern disinterestedness and iron 
strength of heart, they see that, misled by this vis- 
ion of the balance of power, he had wellnigh ruined 
the nation. Sadly was he deceived in his expect- 



THE ETHICS OF WAR. 



353 



ation of thus establishing the prosperity of his 
country. Had he cherished her inward strength, 
and unfolded her rich resources, the Ocean Queen 
would have ruled a happier dominion and worn a 
brighter crown. 

Does not every one know how much more may 
be done by quiet attention to one's own prosperity, 
than by threatening or striving with others ? I do 
not believe in thorough non-resistance. I believe 
that there are circumstances in which we should not 
submit to violent power ; but several things seem 
to show that almost the only thing necessary to 
national prosperity is peace. The king of France, 
who is perhaps the ablest statesman of the day, has 
held back his people from the wars into which they 
would fain be plunging, in order to favor the indus- 
try, bring out the resources, and in that way estab- 
lish the strength and prosperity, of his country. And 
mark the result. While in Tahiti a handful of na- 
tives resist with success his mean attempt to rob 
them of their little island, and while in Algiers, 
w r here he is bent on the same warlike plunder, a 
small Arab chieftain of the desert laughs his mar- 
shals to scorn, in Europe, where peace is his watch- 
word, he carries all before him ; thus affording a mar- 
vellous illustration of the truth, that war is weak- 
ness, and peace is power. 

What a lesson on this subject does history teach ! 
What a comment on the Divine wisdom of the 
Saviour's saying, — " They that take the sword shall 
perish by the sword "! In the case of individuals 
30* 



354 



THE ETHICS OF WAR. 



it is apt to be so ; it is always so with nations. If 
they are built up by violence and oppression, the 
foundations laid in blood sooner or later give way. 
and their false glory is trodden into the dust. Re- 
member the awful vision in which the prophet repre- 
sents the Assyrian conqueror, then in the height of 
his power, as going down to the regions of the dead. 
The kings of the earth, who are lying there in glory, 
every one with his sword under his head, rise up 
from their slumber to meet him at his coming ; they 
bend their sullen brows on him in triumph, saying, 
— " Art thou also become as weak as we?" And 
well does the Christian poet represent the oppressive 
nation as sinking in a similar doom, — as triumphed 
over by the nations which it oppressed : — 

" Art thou, too, fallen, oppressor ? Do we see 
The robber and the murderer weak as we ? 
Thou that hast wasted earth, and dared despise 
Alike the wrath and mercy of the skies, 
Thy pomp is in the grave, — thy glory laid 
Low in the pits thine avarice has made. 
Is this the god, the thunder of whose hand 
Rolled over all our desolated land, 
Shook principalities and kingdoms down, 
And made the nations tremble at his frown ? 
The sword shall light upon his boasted powers, 
And waste them, as the sword has wasted ours." 

But I am again reminded of the light and bless- 
ing which this anniversary calls us to remember. 
Lift up your eyes, and see, high above the joys and 
sorrows of the passing day, high above the conflicts 
of armies, and the uprising and fall of nations, those 



THE ETHICS OF WAR. 



355 



words, ■ — those prophetic words, — " Peace on earth." 
The Saviour has said it, and he will make it good. 
His influence is gaining in the world ; though the 
tongues of a people may cry out for war, the deep 
heart of a people laments it ; there is no such interest 
in it as there was but a quarter of a century ago ; 
men are beginning to feel that in war there can be 
no real victory, — all is loss and sorrow on every 
side. Though they may not disband their armies, 
nor give up all military preparation, they will not 
rally cordially except to the trumpet which gives the 
certain sound of defensive war. To fight when they 
must, not when they will, is growing to be their 
settled purpose ; and if they think they must, they 
will go about the work with serious feeling, with 
any thing but exulting joy. When war is thus re- 
garded, peace, sure and unbroken peace, is not dis- 
tant. The morning of the Saviour's day is drawing 
nigh. Its light burns already on the mountain, the 
spires of churches have caught the early beams ; they 
soon will kindle with far-spreading brightness, and 
illuminate the whole earth. " The kingdoms of this 
world are become the kingdoms of our Lord and of 
his Christ ; and he shall reign for ever and ever.*' 



SERMON XX. 



WE KNOW IN PART. 

WE KNOW IN PART, AND WE PROPHESY IN PART. — 

1 Corinthians xiii. 9. 

To "prophesy" means, in this place, to make 
known religious truth to men ; and the Apostles, it 
seems, could do this but imperfectly, because they 
knew but in part. Even their inspiration did not 
give them a view of all the great subject which was 
intrusted to their hands. They could teach all that 
God thought proper to reveal, all that man needed 
to know. But the full extent, the utmost bounds, 
of Christian truth are not to be traced and meas- 
ured by the human eye. It fills the mind of the re- 
ligious child ; it fills the soul of the adoring angel. 
All, save the Author and Finisher of our faith, know 
but in part. 

Indeed, our knowledge of every thing is imperfect. 
— even of the things that stand nearest to the eye. 
The illuminated page of nature, on which God has 
written so many disclosures of his power and love, — 
how small a portion of its wonders is man yet able 
to understand ! Look at the tree which rises before 



WE KNOW IN PART. 



357 



your window, and shields you from the summer 
sun. You are familiar with its form, its foliage, and 
its flowers. But can you tell what is going on with- 
in it ? Can you explain how it is, that, when the 
winds of autumn are singing their vesper hymn, the 
tree listens to their warning, — how it forms and 
folds its leaves and blossoms, to have them ready 
for another spring ? Can you tell by what prophetic 
anticipation it casts off its yellow drapery, contracts 
its fibres, collects its might, and stands like a gallant 
vessel with its sails taken in and all made fast in 
preparation for the storm? Can you tell how it is 
that the small bird that found shelter in it, the mo- 
ment the red leaf appeared, took its flight to regions 
where the flowers do not wither nor the verdure 
fade ? No. In the history of the simplest things in 
the vegetable and animal world, there is much that 
man does not and cannot understand. 

Come, then, to our knowledge of human nature 
itself, — how imperfect it is ! how many new pages 
are opened from time to time which fill us with 
wonder and dismay ! Perhaps you are able to tell 
how men will feel and act under the common cir- 
cumstances of life ; but who can tell the measure of 
the soul, or how deep and far man's powers and pas- 
sions, in their wild energy, can go ? We see the evil 
spark of anger kindling into a flame, and we won- 
der that it is not trodden out before it rises and 
spreads. But can we understand how it burns and 
rages, till it makes man stab his brother to the heart, 
though he knows that when he murders another he 



358 



WE KNOW IN PART. 



is a suicide of his own soul ? We can understand 
the passion of avarice in its common aspect, — the 
gathering of treasure that death shall take away. 
But can we understand how it grows and gains upon 
the heart, till it turns it to stone, — till it makes an 
Apostle, for a few pieces of silver, sell the blood of 
his Master ? We can understand benevolence in its 
common measure, when it gives what it does not 
want to others ; but can we comprehend that love 
which warms and fills the martyr's heart ? 

Passing finally to the knowledge of the Most 
High, — are not clouds and darkness round about 
him as of old ? " Canst thou by searching find out 
God ? " Let those who have tried reply. Let the 
answer come from one who looked through the 
mysterious enginery of the universe, and saw the 
clear firmament and the glory of the heavens as it 
were with an archangel's eye. A short time before 
his death, Newton said, — "I do not know what 
I may appear to the world ; but to myself I seem 
to have been only like a boy playing on the sea- 
shore, and diverting myself in now and then finding 
a smoother pebble or a prettier shell than ordinary, 
while the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered 
before me." And such has been the testimony of 
all the sons of light. The more they were impressed 
by the Divine majesty, the higher rose their devo- 
tion ; as they grew sensible of their weakness, their 
love grew as pure and their praise as eloquent as 
ever flowed from a seraph's tongue. 

Here, then, we shall be told to reflect on human 



WE KNOW IN PART, 



359 



imperfection and be humble ; for we see how little 
way the sight of man extends, how little man is able 
to know. But let us read our own nature aright. 
There is enough to make us humble ; our unworthi- 
ness, our insensibility, our sins, — these should make 
us humble. That " we know in part " is not hu- 
miliating ; it is the ground and necessary condition 
of man's chief prerogative, and of the only perfection 
of which he is capable. Consider the difference be- 
tween human and Divine perfection, and this will be 
plain to every eye. 

Divine perfection consists in attributes, each and 
all of them unbounded, except by the impossibility 
of being greater. Divine power extends to all 
things that power can do ; Divine wisdom embraces 
every thing that exists, or will exist, or ever has 
existed ; Divine holiness is holiness which cannot 
be enlarged nor exceeded. The perfection of these 
attributes is, that they can be no greater than they 
are. To God nothing can be added. To him there 
is no advance nor improvement. As he was in the 
beginning he is now and evermore shall be. But 
human perfection, by which I mean the greatest 
height to which humanity can aspire, is as different 
as possible from this. I know that human perfec- 
tion seems like a strange association of words ; still, 
there is a perfection to which God, by means of 
Christianity, endeavours to raise his children. And 
this perfection consists in continual progress, — in 
continually advancing towards perfection. When all 
the powers of mind and heart are fully and faith- 



360 



WE KNOW IN PART. 



fully exerted, when man is making daily gains in 
religious feeling and intellectual power, when he is 
thus steadily and surely advancing, he is the per- 
fect man of the Gospel. For human perfection con- 
sists in for ever growing more and more like God. 

It is plain, then, that to " know in part " is not 
humiliating ; it is not even an imperfection : it is a 
happy and honorable condition of our existence, for 
which we should be grateful to Him who made us. 
Had we been differently created, it must have been 
like the animals. What they know, they know in 
full; to them there is nothing "in part." What 
they know, they know as well in the first years of 
their existence as the last. And if man had not 
been created as he is, to "know in part," it must 
have been so with him ; he must have had the in- 
stinct of an animal, the perfection of animals, for he 
could not have the perfection of God. It is this 
partial knowledge which gives him power to im- 
prove, to make continual progress. Knowing in 
part, he has the power to know more ; knowing in 
part, he has the desire to know more ; and thus to 
" know in part," is not a weight, but a spring, — the 
ground at once of that capacity of improvement and 
of that yearning after it which together constitute 
man's highest glory. 

Seeing, then, that improvement is the perfection 
to which human nature must aspire, let us next 
observe how this limited knowledge tends to induce 
and encourage it in every field of thought. 

Look again at the world of nature. Its wonders 



WE KNOW IN PART. 



361 



do not manifest themselves at once ; if they did, the 
mmd could not embrace them, or if it could, a 
heavy satiety, a lethargic self-satisfaction, would take 
the place of that restless energy which makes man 
labor and suffer to extend his knowledge. Every 
thing opens gradually, as the sun rises, not full- 
orbed and fiery red, but gently heralded by the gray 
light and the kindling clouds. When you first point 
out to an intelligent child the wonders of nature, he 
fixes upon you his soft, dark, earnest eyes. The 
world seems enchanted. He asks where these 
things were hidden, that he never saw r them before. 
He enjoys a deep delight, he finds a luxury in this 
gradual illumination of mind, to which he would 
have been a stranger had not God created him to 
know but in part. And so in maturer years, if the 
mind is kept from stagnation, into which it too 
readily subsides. Let a man give his attention to 
any department of knowledge, and he soon gives it 
his heart. He will leave all man loves at home, 
and encounter all man dreads abroad. In the pur- 
suit of improvement, he is ready to traverse the 
arctic snow, the burning desert, the stormiest sea. 
The day is too short for his study ; by night he wall 
outwatch the stars. He will do any thing and suf- 
fer any thing. The least new discovery fills him 
with rapturous joy. The glad energy, the intense 
devotion, with which he engages in the chase of 
knowledge, gives an idea of the manner in which 
the souls of the just will study the works and ways 
31 



362 



WE KNOW IN PART. 



of God, and find every thing radiant with happiness 
and eloquent with praise. 

It is the same with moral truth ; by which I mean 
all truth which relates to God and to the nature and 
destiny of men. Our knowing but in part inspires 
that earnest desire to know more, which is compared 
to hunger and thirst for wisdom, — a desire of truth 
which always burns in the breasts of those who are 
enlightened by the word of God. All truth of this 
kind may be found suggested in that sacred word ; 
there it has been written for ages, and for ages it 
has lain open and close under the eye of man ; and 
yet how slow is man to understand, how slow to 
read the disclosure even of that which he most de- 
sires to know ! Mark the doctrine, for example, that 
true greatness is measured by the amount of ser- 
vices rendered to men, and that no lasting renown can 
be gained by cruelties and wrongs. The world is 
but just waking to this truth ; it does not yet un- 
derstand it, though the words, " Whosoever of you 
will be the chiefest shall be servant of all," have 
been written and read for centuries on the sacred 
page. But now it knows in part, it will feel a grow- 
ing desire to know all that can be known ; and that 
desire will be the cause of new light breaking forth 
from the word of God. We say the sun rises ; but 
it does not rise, — it is only the earth rolling us up- 
ward where we can behold his light. So, when the 
Sun of Righteousness rises upon us, the change is 
in ourselves, and not in him ; and thus, as the de- 



WE KNOW IN PART. 



363 



sire lor improvement extends, the light of truth will 
rise and spread, and the world's path shall be as 
described in those beautiful words, — like " the ris- 
ing light, which shineth brighter and brighter unto 
the perfect day." 

With respect to mankind, also, it is true that par- 
tial knowledge inspires a desire to know more. I 
mean a real knowledge, for I would not give this 
name to that meaner sagacity which teaches us to 
distrust mankind. Who are they that complain most 
of men ? They are those who dwell apart, who 
have none but selfish interests and pleasures, who 
never lift a hand to do good to others ; — these are 
they who talk of the fraud and falsehood of their 
race. While the lovers of mankind are they who 
go about doing good. They find in poor, degraded 
humanity much to reverence and love. He who 
visited the prisons of the earth to expose their 
abuses received not a word of unkindness from pris- 
oners, nor from those who kept them. And tender 
and delicate women have ventured among the most 
abandoned. They were warned that they would 
meet with defiance, but they knew better ; they 
knew that kindness would melt the frozen spirit, 
and, w r here man had been vainly trying for ages to 
overcome evil with evil, they tried with success the 
Christian experiment, and overcame evil with good. 
They saw the darkest aspects of humanity without 
hatred or despair ; and they were right ; for Jesus 
Christ, who knows what is in men, loves them? 
though no being ever endured from them half so 
much as he. 



364 



WE KNOW IN PART. 



The young always have this desire to know more 
of others. Alas, that this generous affection should 
be driven back to their hearts, disappointed and dis- 
mayed, by what they see and hear ! They find their 
parents talking with cold severity of others. — of all 
others, — of any others, — even their nearest friends : 
and they listen with wonder and pain. They are 
affrighted to learn how much there is unworthy and 
contemptible in those whom they desire to love, 
and whom they might have loved, if their warm- 
hearted confidence had not been changed into jeal- 
ous suspicion. Thus it is that man resists the will 
of Heaven. Mankind are thrown apart and kept so : 
those cords of humanity, which united would have 
been strong as the sheet-anchor cable, become singly 
as weak as the silk-worm's thread, and the purpose 
of Christianity is not answered, which is to reconcile 
them to each other and make the divided one: 

So our knowing God but in part inspires an ear- 
nest desire to know more. It leads us on in religious 
improvement, and it makes that improvement a suc- 
cession of bright revelations, in which man is con- 
tinually learning what he thirsted to know. There 
are many things in the dispensations of Heaven 
which the thoughtful long to know, as the prophets 
and kings of ages past desired to look into the mys- 
teries of God. The mother who has lost a child in 
the brightness of its rising, which is now transfig- 
ured in her memory and shines like a morning star. 
— she will bear witness what deep and agitating 
questions sometimes rise in the breast. Why should 



WE KNOW IN PART, 



365 



the dying infant suffer? What moral purpose can 
be gained by this slow torture through which it 
passes to the sleep of death? "Commune with 
your own heart and be still," is all the answer that 
inspiration gives. But no! there is encouragement. 
" What I do thou knowest not now, but thou shalt 
know hereafter." This hope of knowing hereafter 
is an anchor to the soul ; it saves it from being 
wrecked in its own doubts and fears ; it keeps it true 
to itself and its destiny, till it reaches the world 
where the wonders of Providence are unfolded to 
its astonished view, and it can read and understand 
them all. 

But why do I attempt to show you the benefit of 
knowing in part ? Inspiration has done it already ; 
it assures us that it is owing to this our imperfect 
knowledge, that faith, hope, and charity still abide 
with the children of men. Their hope is heaven ; 
but they linger here in compassion to our sorrow, 
to comfort us in the darkness and doubt of the 
world below. Faith stands leaning, with divine se- 
renity, upon the Rock of Ages. Hope looks up to 
heaven with glorious eye, as if impatient to be 
there. Charity is seen in the dark lanes of want 
and suffering, her lamp filled with the oil of glad- 
ness, looking on the guilty and forsaken with a 
smile of kindness that makes the death-bed and the 
dungeon bright. Now they dwell in the world, 
content to remain so long as there is duty they can 
do, or a blessing they can give ; but as soon as that 
which is perfect is come, and that which is in part 
' 31* 



366 



WE KNOW IN PART. 



shall be done away, they will spread their wings 
for their ascending flight, and they will not fold 
them till they reach the heaven of the blest. 

Above all, I would say that we cannot complain 
of the limitation of our knowledge till we make a 
better improvement of what we already know. 
Enough is already known to make us wise unto 
salvation. It remains that we apply it to our hearts 
and lives. And when we consider what a cold wel- 
come has been given to the religion of Jesus Christ, 
we could not wonder if God should at last grow 
weary of forgiving the sins of Christians, and take 
back the gift which is so little valued, — so poorly 
understood. If this should ever be, if the world 
should fall back into barbarism and darkness, if the 
cloud should gather over the tomb again, and every 
page on which life and immortality are written be 
burned to ashes and scattered to the winds, not one 
whisper of complaint would be heard through all 
the Avide borders of the Christian world. For men 
would remember that they did not improve it while 
they possessed it, — they sharpened their passions 
and called it zeal, or they sunk into indifference and 
called it charity ; there were comparatively few who 
took it to their hearts and became acquainted with 
its power. Let us feel, then, that God has revealed 
enough for our improvement ; we have already enough 
to answer for to him. 



SERMON XXI. 



ON READING WORKS OF FICTION, 
love the truth. — Zechariah viii. 19, 

I cannot think it improper to discuss any subject 
here in which our improvement is concerned. I 
therefore propose to speak to you on the use of fic- 
tion, which has gained so fast a hold upon the pub- 
lic taste, that it supplies the most common recreation 
in civilized lands, and has become to many so essen- 
tial a kind of reading, that they have lost the power 
to relish any other. The most favorite writers — 
those whom the people most delight to honor — are 
writers of fiction, not of truth. Many think it ne- 
cessary to administer truth itself in the disguise of 
fiction, from the impression that in this way alone 
it can gain a welcome ; and when the young mind 
opens, fiction is the first thing which it is taught to 
love, — thus creating a taste which does much to 
determine its character and destiny in future years 
perhaps for ever. 

When the use and love of fiction is so general, it 
would be of little avail to speak against it. I do not 
propose to do so. God has made the imagination 



368 ON READING WORKS OF FICTION. 

part of our nature for wise purposes, no doubt ; and 
so long as those purposes are ascertained and kept in 
view, there cannot he much danger. I am willing 
to believe that amusement was one of those pur- 
poses, — not one of the highest, certainly, but still 
one of them. The mind cannot be always on the 
stretch ; the bow must sometimes be unstrung : en- 
tertainment at such intervals is healthy for the mind 
and soul. If, then, fiction is occasionally used for 
this purpose, to refresh the weary powers, to lift up 
into the world of fancy for a time one w r ho is tired 
of walking on the dusty road of existence, such an 
indulgence is not to be blamed ; nor is it incon- 
sistent with that love of truth which is essential 
to the mind of a man as well as the character of a 
Christian. 

But, obviously, there is danger of excess in this 
indulgence : these luxuries cannot be the daily bread 
of the mind. And here let me say, that the effect 
of these fictions on the mind exactly resembles the 
effect of rich and stimulating food upon the body. 
They are loved, no doubt, as such food is eagerly 
devoured, and the occasional use of them, like the 
occasional use of such food, will do no harm ; for it 
is possible to live too low. But when you come to 
the daily, constant use of either, it is ruinous, in one 
case, to the health of the body, in the other, to the 
health of the mind. This being my view of the 
subject, — that fictions are harmless and even useful 
at times, if they can be read with forbearance and 
without excess, — I trust you will listen patiently 



OX READING WORKS OF FICTION. 



369 



while I point out some dangers into w^hich the lover 
of such writings is very apt to fall. They are great 
and serious dangers, — serious enough, in my opin- 
ion, to claim the solemn attention of every mind. 

In the first place, that caution is necessary may 
be seen from the tendency of this taste for fiction to 
become excessive and engrossing. It grows fast, 
and gains strength fast, crowding in upon the other 
tastes of the mind. But some one may say, "What 
if it does grow ? what harm is there in that ?■" I 
answer, that fact proves it to be an unhealthy taste, 
and one which cannot be indulged without injury to 
the mind. It is in this as it is in other things. The 
appetite for bread is a natural and healthy one, and 
so is the taste for water : there is no tendency to use 
either of them to excess. The use of them does 
not inflame any appetite within you which will ever 
become hard to put down. But it is not so with 
the use of stimulating food and drink. Every one 
knows that they tend to excess : great care and self- 
control are necessary to prevent our using them to 
excess ; and this tendency is proof enough that they 
are unhealthy, and that it is dangerous to indulge 
them. In the same manner do I say, that there is 
no danger that the taste for reading true history will 
ever become excessive : — it is healthy in itself, and 
indicates right action in the mind. One who habit- 
ually reads what is true can occasionally resort to 
fiction with pleasure, whereas the habitual reader of 
fiction cannot interest himself in truth ; it is too 
simple and unexciting for him, and his indifference 



370 ON READING WORKS OF FICTION. 

is a bad sign ; for the mind, when not diseased, will 
always find satisfaction in the truth. 

As I said, this taste for fiction, beside being un- 
healthy, dislodges and removes better tastes from the 
mind. There is among our feathered tribes one 
which lays its egg in the nest of some smaller bird. 
After the young cowbird is hatched, though it has 
no enmity to the rightful tenants, the nest is soon 
found too narrow to hold them all, and the result is 
that the smaller fall over the side : the offspring of 
the thief becomes the sole possessor, and is sustained 
by the food which belongs to the ejected young. 
This is an illustration of the manner in which a 
taste for fiction takes a piratical and exclusive pos- 
session of the mind which harbours it. You think, 
perhaps, that your children are great readers, and re- 
joice in it as an indication of activity of mind. But 
see what it is that they are fond of reading ; and if 
you find it to be fiction, you may as well tell me 
that they devour great quantities of confectionary as 
a proof that they are healthy, as infer from their de- 
vouring fiction that their minds are in the way to 
improve. No. In the one case, your child will be 
diseased and have no appetite for the food which 
only can make him strong ; and in the other, you 
will find that, when it comes to reading for improve- 
ment, he has lost the power to do it : and without 
utterly renouncing the wrong taste, he can no more 
recover the right one, than one who allows himself 
to use strong drink intemperately can relish water 
from the purest spring. And this is true, whether in 



ON READING WORKS OF FICTION. 371 

childhood, manhood, or old age. Let your taste for 
fiction be so much indulged that you can no longer 
relish reading for improvement, and the injury is 
done ; the mind is no longer healthy ; the manly, 
pure, refined enjoyment which comes from the har- 
monious use and unfolding of the powers is one 
which such a reader can never know. He may en- 
joy his fictions when he has them, but in the inter- 
vals his mind falls heavily back upon itself; his 
vacant hours are dreary ; he knows not what to do, 
Heavier yet will the hours roll over him in some 
future day. 

There is another danger, arising from the fact that 
the mind is passive, perfectly passive, in this kind 
of reading. In reading for improvement it is not so : 
in that operation the mind is active. Any one who 
has ever read for this purpose knows that, while he 
is so engaged, many questions start up in his mind : 
many new trains of thought are suggested ; the 
mind, instead of tamely receiving the communica- 
tions of the writer, originates new ideas of its own. 
This is, in fact, the benefit of such reading. No one 
can remember a hundredth part of what he reads ; 
the benefit does not consist in direct attainment so 
made ; in a word, the benefit of reading for im- 
provement consists in the activity and vigor which 
it awakens and sustains in the mind. But in read- 
ing for amusement, the mind is not in action. It 
originates no trains of thought ; it gains no new 
strength nor power of action ; but, on the contrary, 
subsides into a luxurious, dreamy state, very much 



372 ON READING WORKS OF FICTION. 



resembling that produced by narcotics, and which, 
fascinating though it is, destroys all moral and intel- 
lectual energy, and makes self-indulgence the ruling 
principle within. Pleasant, no doubt, it is. How 
much pleasanter to sail fast over smooth waters than 
to walk on the rough highway! But look to the 
results. While the tenant of the pleasure-boat gains 
no exercise, and grows tired at last of his perpetual 
recreation, the wayfarer becomes invigorated by his 
exertions, and, after his first weariness is over, en- 
joys the sensation of full health, — the most light- 
hearted and joyous of all physical sensations which 
it is given to man to know. 

Here, also, we see how little force there is in the 
common saying, that good moral instruction can be 
given in a fictitious form. Nobody doubts this ; but 
there is another question : — Can such instruction be 
taken in a fictitious form ? Now I say, that if the 
mind is passive, not active, in such reading, — and it 
is impossible to deny it, — such instruction, if given, 
cannot be taken, and will do the reader no good. 
But experience on this subject abounds, and will 
settle this question, if there is one. The most com- 
mon aim of such writing is to excite the benevolent 
affections ; the utmost it ever does is to excite some 
benevolent emotions, but no impulses, — nothing 
that leads to action ; such emotions, perhaps, as 
bring some tears to the eye, but no such impulses as 
make men extend their hands to the distressed. 
Now these emotions which do not lead to action 
grow less and less every time they are repeated. 



ON READING WORKS OF FICTION. 



373 



The tears are shed, perhaps, as usual, for they cost 
nothing, but the heart grows cold ; so that, of all 
human beings, these persons who weep over fictitious 
distress are the very last to whom you would go for 
relief in that suffering with which the world abounds. 
There must be something graceful and interesting in 
distress before it can touch their feelings; and as 
there is a hard and coarse reality in all suffering that 
requires relief, they reserve their sympathy for im- 
aginary sorrows, and turn from actual sorrows with 
disgust. In this way does their fictitious morality 
affect them. It produces only fictitious benevolence : 
it never warms the heart. And if this reading is a 
self-indulgence, as we know it is, how can we ex- 
pect any thing self-denying, as all true benevolence 
must be, to grow out of it ? We might as well ex- 
pect fires to kindle out of snow. It is often said of 
fictions, that they give false views of human life. 
They do not give any views of human life at all. 
The mind, being passive, is not in a state to receive 
instruction, however just and true may be the views 
of the writer. Nothing is communicated to the 
mind ; so that these views of life, as they are called, 
are nothing but the reader's own fancies ; they are 
nothing that he sees about him, but only paintings 
of the imagination within ; and I need not say how 
impossible it is that they should be practical, useful, 
or true. 

Because of this circumstance, that the mind is 
passive in reading fiction, it is exposed to injurious 
influences, which if it were in action it would hardly 
32 



374 



ON READING WORKS OF FICTION. 



feel. The health of the mind is precisely analogous 
to that of the body, and depends on similar laws. 
Let a man be exposed to the evening air in an un- 
healthy climate : so long as he is in motion, there is 
no danger ; but let him sit down to gaze at the 
moonlight as it sleeps sweetly on the landscape, and 
he will breathe in disease with the fragrance of the 
flowers. Still more, if he slumbers under the serene 
and peaceful influence of that evening sky, it is 
almost certain that death will be the end of it. Who 
does not know that the enjoyment of reading fiction 
resembles this ? It has a soothing and pleasant effect 
upon the mind. One cannot easily persuade himself 
that his moral health is in danger : but certain it is 
that he is the sure victim of the immoral and un- 
principled author whom he reads. His moral and 
religious sensibility will be impaired ; his hatred of 
guilt and unworthiness will be put to sleep, and he 
will become callous to suggestions which he would 
formerly have regarded with fear and shame. 

But you say all writers of fiction are not immoral. 
No, they are not ; and it is well for the world that it 
is so. I allow that the best and most eminent of 
them are not men who will stoop to licentiousness 
and corruption. But many of them are persons who 
will descend to any thing for the sake of effect, and. 
as they have no moral principle of their own, will 
not regard, nor even be conscious of, the mischief 
they do : and if a person of this kind can secure a 
temporary popularity, he may spread the breath of 
contagion among thousands, because they read him 



ON READING WORKS OF FICTION. 375 



with minds too passive to discover the injury he is 
doing to their virtue. Thus there may be an author 
so unconscious of moral distinctions, as to represent 
a common thief as lofty and generous in his senti- 
ments and affections, and so recommend him to the 
reader's imitation and love. Or he may take a mur- 
derer,- and invest the base wretch with rainbow colors 
of fancy, till the bewildered reader shall really feel 
as if assassination were consistent with refinement 
and even grandeur of mind, — not perceiving that 
these are stupid and senseless contradictions, — not 
conscious that the shallow and rotten-hearted writer 
is effacing from his mind all the lines which separate 
vice from virtue, and glory from shame. I allow 
that the world will at last find out these creatures of 
a day, and dismiss them to forgetfulness with the 
contempt which they deserve. But meantime they 
are read by many. In many young hearts their in- 
famous work is done. They have taught many 
young and tender spirits to look on crimes without 
abhorrence, to admire, rather than condemn, the 
guilty, and have thus brought their minds uncon- 
sciously into opposition to the spirit of the Gospel 
and the laws of God, — not because they write with 
power, but because a mind not in action is open to 
every influence, and can be bent and moulded with 
the light touch of the feeblest hand. 

I would say, too, that if there are not many writ- 
ers of this description, if — though some such have 
been popular with those who ought to know bet- 
ter — the majority are of a higher order, still the 



376 



ON READING WORKS OF FICTION. 



very best of them may do injury, because they will 
create a taste for fiction which can only be fed with 
fiction. Let a youth begin with the most unexcep- 
tionable writers of the kind, — writers who would 
scorn to prostitute their imaginations to low or licen- 
tious uses, — still, the more the young are fascinated 
by them, the more they are in love with fiction ; the 
more do they crave such excitement ; the less easily 
do they content themselves with that daily bread 
which is the only healthy food for the mind. Now, 
if this appetite is once created, it will soon lose its 
moral taste and power of selection. It will demand 
and it will have indulgence. Works of high moral 
beauty will soon cease to stimulate, and it will be- 
gin to devour indiscriminately all such works as lie 
in its way, without regard to their character, or the 
effect they may have upon his heart. The epicure 
may begin with light wines ; so long as they exhil- 
arate, he will not ask for any thing stronger ; but the 
thirst for excitement grows within him, and when 
these will no longer excite, he will resort to those 
stronger drinks which he once disdained to touch. 
In the same way it is that even the best writers of 
this kind create a taste for intellectual excitement, 
which must and will be indulged. When their 
works are exhausted, the reader will resort to others 
less worthy ; he will not perceive the degenerating 
change which goes on within him ; he will not be 
conscious that his moral sense is dead and all his 
soul in ruins. 

This unconsciousness of danger — unconscious- 



OX READING WORKS OF FICTIOX. 



377 



ness even of rain — is one of the most fearful things 
in all diseases of the mind and heart. When the 
frame is affected with physical disorder, it is plain to 
every eye ; but no external trembling betrays the 
palsy which indulgence has brought upon the mind ; 
no blackness on the surface shows that mortification 
of the moral nature has commenced within. A man 
does not even know when his soul is dead, — dead 
to all living action, dead to all the higher purposes 
of existence, dead to the claims of humanity and of 
God. Therefore do I say that a man must look 
within himself with a sharp, observing eye. He 
must learn to watch those signs of change which are 
not obvious to the outward sense : he must dread 
that self-satisfaction which is always crying. " Peace ? 
peace. " when, if he knew himself, he would have 
no peace within. 

If any one asks how he may know the signs of 
danger. I say. as I intimated before, that if he has 
lost his taste, or never formed the taste for reading 
for improvement, there is injury already done. If 
he would know how much is done, let him throw 
by the news and fiction of the day. and see whether 
they are essential to his enjoyment : whether he is 
listless and dull without them, or whether he can 
turn with energy and interest to works of a different 
order. — such as will put the mind in action, and 
send through it a healthy glow. Let him make the 
experiment fully and fairly, without submitting to 
any arts of self-imposture : and if he finds that it 
gives him no pleasure to exert his powers, that im- 
32* 



378 



ON READING WORKS OF FICTION. 



provement alcne has no attractions, that he turns to 
his fiction like the intemperate man to his glass, 
then the charge, " Love the truth," should be a se- 
rious sound to him. It reminds him of a perverted 
taste, of a neglected duty ; and of a change, too, 
which must be made before the purposes of life can 
be fulfilled. 



ADDRESS 



DELIVERED AT THE CONSECRATION OF THE SPRINGFIELD CEMETERY, 
SEPTEMBER OTH, 1841.* 



When I saw this great audience just now, wind- 
ing up through the glades of the cemetery, to take 
their places on this ground, I was deeply affected 
with the thought, how soon we shall take our places 
in the dust below. With this deep thought upon 
our minds, with these hills and valleys around us, 
in presence of these venerable trees and these spark- 
ling waters, with the green earth beneath and God's 
own bright sky above us, I need not ask your at- 
tention, I need not labor to bring you to solemnity ; 
for I doubt not that a voice is now saying in every 
heart, " The place whereon thou standest is holy 
ground." 

The feeling which leads us to respect the dead ? 
the same feeling which brings us here to-day, is 
found in every age and country ; ay, in every man 
who deserves the name of man. The rough soldier, 

* The interest which Dr. Peabody took in this cemetery has been 
noticed in the Memoir. Though an edition of his Address at its con- 
secration was published at the time, for circulation in the neighbour- 
hood, we have thought that it might be appropriately reprinted here. 



380 



ADDRESS AT THE CONSECRATION 



at the grave of his comrade, feels this strong emo- 
tion, and becomes a better man for the time : the 
seaman, as he leans over the side of his vessel, to 
watch the plunge of his shipmate's corpse in the 
waters, becomes more thoughtful than ever he was 
before. And ye yourselves do know, that, in every 
funeral, where the dead lies out before the living, 
with an air of mysterious reserve upon his brow, 
with an unsearchable depth of expression which no 
living eye can read, he is invested, for the time, 
with the stern majesty of death, and every heart does 
willing homage to his power. 

Nor does this reverence cease when the dead are 
hidden from our eyes. It follows them to the grave, 
and makes us regard as sacred the place where we 
have laid them. The burial-place is the favorite 
retreat of the thoughtful : it calms all troubled feel- 
ings : it is the place where many holy lives begin, 
where the unfortunate are most reconciled to this 
world, and the gay most concerned for the other. 
When our friends depart, we hang over these places 
with profound interest, because here it is that we 
lose them. Up to this place we can follow them, 
through all changes of joy and sorrow, of life and 
death. But " hitherto shall thou come, and no far- 
ther," is written on the portal of the tomb. Here 
is the boundary, beyond which they cannot return, 
beyond which we cannot go. Xo wonder, then, 
that it chains attention ; it is like the spot in the 
ocean where we have seen some gallant ship go 
down. 



OF THE SPRINGFIELD CEMETERY. 3S1 



And now I say. it is nature, that is. the God of 
nature, who inspires this feeling in the human breast. 
I have heard some men say. that they care not what 
becomes of their remains when they are gone. It 
may be so : they may say so of themselves if they 
will. But if they say that they care not what be- 
comes of the remains of their friends when they 
are gone, their hearts are not in the right place ; 
I should doubt if the)' had friends. — I should know 
that they did not deserve them. Indifference to 
these things is not natural to any good mind or 
heart. Nature says, "Bury me with my fathers/ 5 
The feeling which nature dictates is } " that I may 
die in mine own city, and be buried by the grave of 
my father and my mother." 

It is true, the soul is more than the body ; the con- 
dition of the soul which has gone into eternity is in- 
finitely more important than that of the tenement 
of clay which it leaves behind. But whoever truly 
cares for the one will also care for the other. Who- 
ever follows with his heart the friend who has gone 
into eternity will surely have some regard to the 
place where that friend's remains are laid. Why 
is the body cared for ? Is it not because it has been 
for a time the dwelling of the soul? This reason 
will be sufficient to keep any one who values the 
soul from treating it with the least disdain. Have 
you not known how. when a friend departs, every 
thing that has been connected with him becomes 
consecrated in your eyes ? The letters he wrote, the 
dress he wore, the books he read, — every thing is 



382 ADDRESS AT THE CONSECRATION 



a sacred memorial to the surviving. Surely, then, 
the mortal frame which the soul has once illumi- 
nated with light and love, — the mortal frame, where 
the soul has beamed from the eye, breathed from 
the lips, and shone like a glory on the brow, — sure- 
ly the remains deserve to be treasured ; and I neither 
envy nor respect the man who can treat them with 
light regard. 

Do you say that this feeling grows out of refine- 
ment ? that it springs from cultivation, not from na- 
ture ? To this I have a reply. The land on which 
we dwell was possessed by a different race two 
hundred years ago. There is reason to believe that 
their camps were stationed and their council-fires 
burned on a part of this very ground. That wild 
race was never equalled by any civilized people 
in their attachment to the graves and the memory 
of their fathers. Was this refinement in them ? 
Was it not rather a natural feeling, which all their 
barbarism had never been able to extinguish ? 

Let me ask, too, what portion of a civilized com- 
munity manifest this feeling in its greatest strength ? 
Is it the refined, as they are called, or is it those 
who are more true to nature ? Who are they who 
make it so dangerous to violate the grave ? Let an 
insult be offered to the tomb, and all the roughest 
elements of the community are up in arms. They 
say that the living can protect themselves ; but they 
must guard the slumbers of the defenceless dead. 
So far from refinement being the parent of these 
feelings, it rather tends to weaken and destroy them. 



OF THE SPRINGFIELD CEMETERY. 383 



Silver and gold may be refined till they are fit for 
no useful purpose, and serve only for ornament and 
show : and so man may be refined till he becomes 
cold and heartless. — till all generous impulses and 
affections forsake his breast for ever. 

But you ask, If this feeling is natural, why has it 
not done more to improve the outward aspect of the 
grave ? I answer, this is the province of taste ; and 
it does not follow that, because the feeling of respect 
for the dead is strong, it shall manifest itself in this 
way : though, in coming days, there is encourage- 
ment to hope that it will. The proper taste has 
been inspired ; it is spreading fast and far ; the time 
is not distant, when Mount Auburn, which for years 
was almost alone, will be the mother of a thousand 
fair cities of the dead. It is not so now. In most 
parts of our land, the burial-place is another name 
for desolation. Its walls, if it have any, are broken 
down ; its monuments are leaning with neglect, not 
with age, — as if they were weary of bearing inscrip- 
tions which no one comes to read : there is no relief 
to the eye but the rank grass in summer, and the 
aster and golden-rod in autumn, which nature 
spreads there as if in shame for the living and com- 
passion for the dead. In such places, every one 
feels ashamed of his race : every one feels that the 
living are unjust and unworthy. Why, the very 
dog, who has been faithful to his master, deserves a 
more honored grave. 

And now let me say, that religion strongly tes- 
tifies to the power of this natural feeling. If I 



384 ADDRESS AT THE CONSECRATION 

would know what will affect the human heart, the 
Bible is the authority to which I go. There we 
find it written that God determined to separate the 
sons of the patriarchs as a peculiar people. They 
were then wanderers by habit and profession ; it 
was necessary that they should give up their roving, 
and settle quietly down in the limits of the prom- 
ised land. And this was done. Hard as it is to 
change the manners of a people, in the case of the 
Hebrews this was so thoroughly done, that these 
hereditary wanderers became renowned through all 
the nations for the depth of their attachment to 
their father-land. In the captivity, by the rivers of 
Babylon, when their conquerors respectfully desired 
to hear their far-famed minstrelsy, the songs of Zion 
were so full of recollections of their country, that 
it almost broke their hearts to sing them. They 
hanged their harps on the weeping willows, and 
could not strike them again. Their feeling is ex- 
pressed by one of their prophets, in the words, 
" Weep not for the dead, neither bemoan him ; but 
weep for him that goeth away : for he shall return 
no more, nor see his native country." 

And how was this great change accomplished ? 
It was done by means of this feeling of respect for 
the dead. It was done by anchoring the affections 
of the children to the graves of their fathers. From 
the earliest ages, all who dwelt near to God took 
an interest in this subject, resolved that the body, 
which had once been the dwelling of the soul? 
should not, like common dust, be trodden under foot 



OF THE SPRINGFIELD CEMETERY. 385 

of men. When Jacob was dying in Egypt, he 
could not bear the thought of being laid to rest in 
the distance and solitude of a foreign land. Joseph, 
too, bound his children by a promise, that his re- 
mains should be borne to the sepulchre of his fa- 
thers. This feeling grew and gained strength among 
them, till it destroyed all inclination to wander, — 
till it was the heart's desire and prayer of the dying 
Hebrew, that his ashes might mingle, dust to dust, 
with his own, his native land. 

We should not have expected to find the true 
taste in times so ancient ; nor should we find it in 
any except the patriarchs and those whose souls 
were lighted from on high. But we do trace, in 
those early ages, the same taste which now begins to 
prevail among ourselves, — the same desire to bring 
trees and flowers, to remove the dreariness of the 
place of death. When Abraham bought the field 
of Machpelah for a cemetery, he secured the right to 
all the trees that were in it, and all that grew on its 
borders. The sepulchre of our Saviour, too, was in 
a garden, — a place where trees spread their shade 
above, and flowers breathed incense from their little 
urns below, — a place not distant from the city, and 
yet not so near that the noise and business of the 
living should disturb the silence of the grave. Not 
anticipating that their Master would rise, they laid 
him in a place to which they might come in peace 
and loneliness, to meditate and remember, and where 
pilgrims in after times might resort, to be strength- 
33 



3S6 ADDRESS AT THE CONSECRATION 



ened and inspired by the memory of that great friend 
of man. 

The religion of Jesus tends to confirm the feeling 
of which I speak. It gives us reason to believe that 
the departed are living, — gone from this world, in- 
deed, but not from existence, — living in some prov- 
ince of creation, where, it is not given us to know. 
If it be so, they must look back with deep interest 
on all the scenes through which they travelled in 
their pilgrimage below. And if, from their bright 
abodes, they look down on their own neglected 
graves, must there not be sorrow in heaven ? But 
no ! sorrow can never enter to disturb the untroubled 
calm above. Let me ask rather. Will there not be 
joy in heaven if they can see that their resting-place 
is honored, and that memorials are planted there by 
affectionate hands ? It will assure them, not merely 
that they are remembered, but that then surviving 
friends are faithful, both to the dead and the living, 
and that they are preparing to meet them in their 
Father's house on high. 

But I am going beyond your patience and my 
own strength : I will therefore bring the subject 
directly home to ourselves. 

We have made arrangements to leave the burial- 
place of our fathers. The opening of that small 
grave yonder was the act by which we bade it fare- 
well. We have done it from necessity and not from 
choice. If I am told that there is room there yet. 
I answer, It is true ; we may bury our dead there 



OF THE SPRINGFIELD CEMETERY. 



387 



if we will. But if we lay our heart's treasure there 
to-day. the stranger may be laid at his side to-mor- 
row ; and thus they who have been united in life 
must be separated in death. Surely every heart will 
confess that it ought not so to be. 

The place " where the rude forefathers of the 
hamlet sleep " was originally chosen with true taste 
and feeling. It was so near the village, that the 
mourner might follow his dead on foot, as the 
mourner should, if God gives him strength ; at the 
same time, it was so distant as to leave the place in 
silence and repose. When I came here, twenty 
years since, it was my favorite resort, at morning, 
at evening, and sometimes at midnight hours. It 
was peaceful, — it was beautiful. On one side the eye 
wandered over the two spires, which were all that 
then rose in the village, to the high walls of the 
valley, crowned with the dark pine wood. On the 
other side it fell upon the bright stream, with the 
green fringe upon its borders, where there was sel- 
dom even a dashing oar to break the smoothness of 
the tide. But as the village grew, the place was 
changed. The sounds of busy life came near ; the 
noise of men, on the fields and the waters, was 
brought into painful contrast with the stillness of the 
grave. And now, for years, we have heard the quick 
steps of improvement, as it is called, trampling like 
a war-horse round it, impatient to tread it down. 
When Jerusalem was about to fall, a voice was heard 
at midnight in the temple, saying, — "Let us de- 
part " : and when I have been, at the dead of night, 



388 



ADDRESS AT THE CONSECRATION 



at the place of which I speak, it required little fancy 
to hear a voice saying to the sleepers, — " Arise and 
depart, for this is not your rest ; the place where the 
living buy and sell is no longer a home for you." 

Suffer me to congratulate you now on the success 
which has attended this enterprise from its beginning 
to the present hour. Seven years since, I presented 
this subject to all whom my voice could reach. I 
did so at the desire of a daughter of this village, 
who was deeply interested in its welfare ; but before 
her purpose could be accomplished, she was called 
away ; and from necessity she was borne to the 
very place where she could not bear that the re- 
mains of her friends should lie. Last year another 
effort was made, by those, whom, if they were not 
present, I might name with the praise which they 
deserve. The means to conduct the enterprise have 
been liberally supplied by those who could have no 
hope of gain, nor even requital for the efforts and 
sacrifices they made. There were some who would 
have selected a different place ; but with that gen- 
erosity which it is more common to hear of than to 
see, they gave up their own preferences, and showed 
that they cared for nothing but the general good. 
Have we not reason to hope that this will he se- 
cured? Nature has made this place beautiful, and 
the purpose for which it is now set apart will make 
it an attractive and delightful resort in every state of 
feeling, — to the sorrowful and the happy, to the aged 
and the young. I am persuaded that nothing has 
been done in this village since its history began, 



OF THE SPRINGFIELD CEMETERY. 389 

which will tend so much to improve and refine it, 
as what you are doing now. Observe that small 
fountain, whose sweet voice you hear. It gathers 
the streams which formerly ran unseen through the 
meadow, and lifts them up to the eye in graceful 
silver falls. And in like manner this place and this 
enterprise will assemble streams of good taste and 
feeling which formerly ran to waste, and from them 
produce results which shall be grateful to every eye, 
and inspiring to every heart. When the native of 
this town, after long absence, returns to the home 
of his fathers, he will walk the streets, and all whom 
he meets there will be strangers ; he will inquire 
concerning familiar dwellings, and the names of their 
inhabitants will be new ; when he meets his old 
acquaintance, he will find that they know not the 
Joseph of former days. He will be forlorn and soli- 
tary among the living, and will not feel at home till 
he comes to the mansions of the dead. Here he 
will find the guardians and the playmates of former 
years ; here will be all whom he used to reverence 
and love ; and here his heart will overflow with 
emotions, such as no tongue can adequately tell. 

Reflect how many tenants will soon be here, to 
claim their freehold in the dust below. One fair 
and gentle child has already come, — a fitting herald 
to take possession in the name of all the dead. 
Here he has laid himself down on a colder pillow 
than a mother's breast. Many such will soon be 
here — morning stars quenched in the brightness of 
33* 



390 ADDRESS AT THE CONSECRATION 

their rising — before they have known the stains and 
sorrows of life below. Children, in tender years, will 
follow their parents to this place ; the domestic circle 
will be fearfully broken, and thenceforth the wide 
world will be their home. The husband will follow 
the wife, — the light and joy of his desolated home ; 
and the wife the husband, on whose strong arm she 
had hoped to lean through all her days. The young, 
sinking under the slow torture of wasting disease, 
will flee away and be at rest in this holy ground ; 
the aged, after years of labor and sorrow, will depart 
to this place in peace. The pale marbles will rise 
every where around us, telling of the dead, some- 
times what they were, but still oftener what they 
ought to have been. 

We are here to-day to consecrate these grounds. 
And we do consecrate them in the name of " Him 
that liveth, and was dead." We consecrate them 
to the service of our Heavenly Father, to the in- 
fluences of his Spirit, to the kingdom of his Son. 
We consecrate them to the sacred repose of the 
dead, and the religious improvement of the living. 
We consecrate them to all kind affections, to heaven- 
ward hopes, to the tears of love, to the consolation 
of grief. We consecrate them to the growth of 
Christian principles, to the power of Christian emo- 
tions. Heaven has made it a land of streams and 
fountains, a land of valleys and hills ; and now may 
a stronger and deeper interest be given to it than 
beauty can ever bestow, and may the blessing of 



OF THE SPRINGFIELD CEMETERY. 391 



God be upon it from the beginning to the end of the 
year ! 

But when we consecrate this place in the Sav- 
iour's name, it should remind us of the promises of 
the Gospel. Many of us have been at his table, to 
commemorate his dying love, to-day. When he sat 
with his disciples at the last supper, the bread and 
the wine passed untasted by him ; he said that he 
would not share them again till they met in the 
kingdom of God. So, then, happy meetings were 
yet before them, and that parting was not the last. 
What a world of bright promise to the faithful do 
those simple words bestow ! It spreads out in a 
thousand forms of hope, each one of which is a 
ray of glory to some afflicted heart. The mother, 
for example, — the Rachel weeping for her children, 
but not refusing to be comforted, because she has 
surrendered them to her Father and their Father, to 
her God and their God, — she may lift up her eyes 
and look forward to the time when she shall go to 
those who cannot return to her, — when they shall 
be the first to meet her at heaven's gate, and with 
bright and glad voices bid her welcome to their own 
happy home. 

" O, when the mother meets on high 
The babe she lost in infancy, — 

Hath she not then, for all her fears, 
The day of woe, the sleepless night, 

For all her sorrows, all her tears, 
An over-payment of delight ? " 

But the hour is wasting ; I see by the lengthening 



392 ADDRESS AT THE CONSECRATION 

shadows that the sun is sinking low. I see that 
some, who, when I began to speak, were in the sun- 
shine, are now in the evening shade. And some, 
who are now in the full sunshine of prosperity and 
gladness, will soon be covered with the awful shad- 
ow of death. We shall soon leave this ground, — 
never again thus to assemble, till we meet in the 
dust below. The day is going down ; the darkness 
of night will soon settle on these hills and vales. 
The season is declining ; the red leaf is already 
hung as a signal from the tree, and the winds of 
autumn will soon be heard singing their vesper- 
hymn. The year is waning ; the trumpet of the 
winter storms will soon be sounded ; they will sweep 
through these leafless woods, and rush and howl 
over the habitations of death. Let us feel, then, 
for it is true, that every fading year, every fall of 
the leaf, every closing day, and every toll of the 
funeral bell is measuring our dead march to the 
grave. 

Let us prepare, then, since, prepared or not, we 
must go. Let us have the only preparation that 
can avail us in the dying hour. Let us " so number 
our days as to apply our hearts unto wisdom." Let 
us say to Him who made us, — " The grave cannot 
praise thee ; death cannot celebrate thee : but the 
living, the living, he shall praise thee as we do 
this day." May we so spend our days in his ser- 
vice, that, in the hour which is not far from any 
one of us, we may look forward with hopes full 



OF THE SPRINGFIELD CEMETERY. 393 



of immortality ; and when the cares of this short 
life are over, through Him who lived, and labored, 
and died upon the cross to save us, may we serve 
Him in nearer presence and with angels' powers 
on high ! 



THE END, 



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